Broken Mirror
by Robin Mask
Summary: It was obvious, wasn't it? All the symptoms were there. Canada was sure of it, because there was only one thing it could be: America had an eating disorder. The problem was that no one else seemed to think that he did. There couldn't be more to it than met the eye, could there? Then there was Britain, who was acting strangely . . . if only Canada could understand why. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I have used both human and country names. I used the French spelling of 'Mathieu' for Canada, with sporadic usages of 'Matthew' when referred to by English-speaking countries.

**Broken Mirror**

**Chapter One**

"There you go, Alfred, my lad!"

Mathieu sighed as he watched as Alfred.

The loud American whooped loudly in excitement and punched the air hard. It was almost adorable, like watching a toddler being given a big bowl of ice cream, except – on a grown man – it was a little embarrassing. Mathieu loved his brother, he truly did, but this kind of melodramatic behaviour was becoming something of a problem, because it was this kind of behaviour people _remembered_.

Why did people have to always associate him with his brother? It wasn't even that people thought Mathieu to be _like _him as such, it was just that he didn't want people thinking that he shared the same strange tastes or disgusting eating habits as Alfred. The way his brother tore into his fish and chips with an absolute fervour, barely even finding time to taste his food or to even chew it . . . it was just so contrary to normal human behaviour! It would have been one thing to get excited over a good and healthy meal, but to get excited over _Britain's _cooking was another thing altogether. Beer-batter? Yuck.

"Err, Britain? C-could I have some, too?"

"Huh? Oh, Al-! I mean, of course, Matthew!"

"Thank you."

Of course, Britain would have forgotten the younger twin sitting at the dining table, which meant there would only be one portion of food available, and by the time that America had finished his meal Mathieu's serving would likely still be cooking. He knew he should have been offended, but it was probably a blessing that there was such a delay. It would give him just enough time to see if Alfred was affected by food poisoning or not, _before _eating what was about to be served.

"Dude! Do we have, like, you know, that green ice-cream stuff that Japan gave us?"

Mathieu looked up from over his laptop monitor and stared incredulously at his brother. Had he even eaten his food, or was this some sort of magical trick involving mirrors and gullible viewers? It didn't seem possible that he could have eaten that quickly. If Mathieu was chastised for bringing his laptop computer to the dinner table, then why wasn't Alfred chastised for eating like a starving pig?

It wasn't that Mathieu hated these kinds of 'family get-togethers', but every time they had some sort of big world meeting it seemed to be that everyone kind of 'grouped off' in order to either save money on travel or to just avoid spending time alone. The Baltic States would be in one corner, the ex-Soviet states in another, and then there would usually be the Commonwealth countries gossiping behind Britain's back in the distance. When the G8 meetings were held in the United Kingdom somehow, for some reason, there always seemed to be France, Canada, and America sharing the house of Britain himself. It made for very noisy breakfasts, argumentative lunches, and sulking dinners. Did no one ever get along?

Francis had left the house early after a continental breakfast, refusing to touch the 'full English breakfast' that Britain had served, and – after feeling his cholesterol go through the roof and his arteries clog – Mathieu had decided to spend his day with his brother and with Britain. It had been nice . . . _at first_. Then he had seen Alfred grab some chocolate, then some liquorice, then a sandwich, and then a dessert . . . in the end Mathieu had decided to go online.

Research was key.

"Huh?" Britain stopped cooking and turned around. "Do you mean the green-tea ice-cream? Yes, I think so. There should be some in the freezer, but you should let your food digest a bit before getting any dessert."

"Nah, it's totally fine! See, my stomach's like growling already!"

"Well, if you insist. Help yourself, I'm just about to deep-fry the fish."

"Thanks, dude!"

Mathieu looked at Alfred and then at his screen. It was amazing that his brother could pile on the calories and yet not the pounds, and judging by Alfred's stomach he was probably in much better shape than Mathieu was. The Canadian always tried to hide his physique under baggy hooded tops, or by slouching, and yet Alfred had the confidence to stride about with bare chest or tight T-shirts. How did he stay so thin? He always complained about gaining weight, but _where_?

"Hey, Alfred?" Mathieu asked shyly. "Could I have some ice-cream too?"

"Nuh-uh! Get your own ice cream, bro!"

Kumajiro nudged Mathieu's foot as he sighed, and the young Canadian reached down to stroke his favourite bear's head for some comfort. It was such a lovely day for once. He had never gotten used to how the British weather could have four seasons in one day, but he enjoyed the warmth of the sunshine through the window and upon his skin, because – no matter how cold England could be – it was never as cold as Canada. It was a nice change to feel warm for once.

Alfred threw himself down in his chair opposite Mathieu, the tub of ice cream was in one hand – freshly taken from the freezer – and in his other hand sat a large serving spoon that would probably not even fit inside the tub. He looked so casual with messy hair, askew glasses, and old T-shirt with jeans, almost like he had just woken up from a long nap, and he _had _just woken up, too. Ice cream for 'breakfast', seriously?

"I think you have a problem, Alfred," Mathieu said.

Alfred rolled his eyes and tried to shovel the ice cream into his mouth, rather unsurprisingly the spoon didn't fit in the slightest, and so Alfred was forced to eat his 'serving' in smaller bites as he worked his way around the bowl of the spoon. If Arthur hadn't his back to his youngest friend, then he probably would have just thrown a regular sized spoon at Alfred and had done with it. It was just a shame that he _couldn't _see Alfred. How was it that the more visible of the pair was always the one who's personal issues were most ignored?

"What?" Alfred snapped. "What kind of problem, man?"

"I – I think you have an eating disorder, maple!"

"Ha! You're kidding right?"

Arthur turned his head to look over his shoulder. Great, this was really a conversation that he wanted _Arthur _to hear . . . the problem was that it was so difficult to speak to Alfred alone, because his brother was always busy with chores or hanging out with other nations. It wasn't as if Mathieu had a choice here. It was either talk about this in front of Arthur or not to talk about it at all, and – well – _someone _had to say something, didn't they? This wasn't healthy at all.

It wasn't as if he had proof, of course he didn't, but then how would he? It wasn't as if he could follow America to the bathroom, or count his calories for him, or even monitor his exact food intake over the course of the day. He only knew what he saw and what he saw was enough. Alfred was his brother! He would do what he had to do to protect him, even if that meant confronting him!

"No, I'm not," Mathieu said firmly. "I've been looking it up. The symptoms match you perfectly! Do I need to remind you how you broke your foot running for ice cream, or how you refused to take baths because of the cost, but the _second _Japan told you that they were good for losing weight that you suddenly wanted to take them all the time? You even sang a song during karaoke comparing us all to a burger. A _burger_, Alfred! I don't even _want _to know how you came up with the lyrics!"

"Oh, come on! 'Hamburger Street' was an _awesome_ song! If I could release it as a CD, I so totally would! And plus that was Britain's fault that I broke my foot, he was so far away when he announced he had ice cream! I had to run!"

"And your sudden fascination with baths?"

"Dude, you can get clean _and _lose weight at the same time! You tell me that isn't awesome! I mean when I asked France how to lose weight his idea was to have more sex, and China's method was basically starvation, but Japan always has the best ideas! He even recommended portion control, but why bother?"

Mathieu huffed loudly and stabbed hard at the keyboard.

If this were a cartoon he would be sure that his glasses would be steamed from sheer irritation and fury, but in reality his anger only made it harder to concentrate and nothing more. So he ignored the pink-apron clad England, who placed his fish-and-chips beside him with a soft clatter of the plate upon the glass placemat, and he instead increased the font-size of the page. If he pulled up a few windows together then he could probably show Alfred some scary photos alongside the bullet-points, because if his brother wouldn't listen then maybe some shock-tactics would be more effective. He only hoped that they would work.

"Eat your dinner, lad," England said, as he slapped Canada on the back. "It won't do to worry yourself like this on an empty stomach. America is just a growing boy, that's all. He grew so much between one of my visits that I barely recognised him on my return! If he eats heartily then it's just because he has a hearty appetite."

"Oh yeah?" Alfred snapped, as he glared daggers at England. "Says the guy who calls me every variation of 'fat' there is. You're so harsh! Sure, _now _you're being nice, but do you even _remember _what you said the _last _time we hung out?"

"How can I bloody remember? I told you not to let me drink too much!"

"Look," Mathieu said, as he stabbed his deep-fried chips with his fork, "I just think it's suspicious that Alfred is always weighing himself and always trying to lose weight. He has an addiction to exercise, he always looks far thinner than the rest of us, and yet he eats like a pig. He also eats anything, no matter how it looks or how unhealthy it is. It's like he doesn't have a gag reflex."

That was true. If his brother could swallow mushy-peas soaked in vinegar, beer-battered cod, and deep-fried chips – not to mention lukewarm ales and desserts that looked like they had already been half-digested – then there had to be something seriously wrong with his eating habits. Oh, of course America knew it tasted bad, Mathieu had seen him on occasion feign enjoyment just to avoid hurting Britain's feelings, but he still ate the food nonetheless! If it tasted that bad going in, how would it taste going back out? Gross.

"Hey! I do too have a gag-reflex! Ask Artie!"

"W-what! H-how the hell would I know that? Idiot!"

Ah, and it all started all over again . . . did nothing in this family get taken seriously? England had already began a loud tirade of abuse at America, yelling and shouting as if the younger man was even listening in the slightest, whilst America simply leaned back in his chair and scratched his ear with disinterest. The tub of ice cream was still in his lap, and the serving spoon was still making regular trips from bowl to mouth.

It was probably natural that his brother would have problems like this. Britain would cook all the time, simply for the love of cooking, and even if he weren't eating himself he would still cook for others. Then there was France. France, the man who was renowned for excellent cooking, who would constantly tease and tempt America into eating his latest creations and fanciest meals, just to prove a point to England about what 'true' cookery meant. That didn't even include the amount of times that Japan felt obliged to cook for his guest, or how America would visit Italy just for the privilege of being offered leftovers from the meal before.

It was no wonder that America's people had such an obesity problem. If Canada had Italian, Chinese, Japanese, French, and Mediterranean restaurants all in walking distance then he'd have probably felt the urge to binge often as well. It made him feel lucky that he had Francis as his main role model, because it meant that he had learned the value of calorie-control and healthy eating. He hadn't picked up the awful habits of his brother, who had apparently adopted all Britain's worst habits and none of his good.

"Alfred," Mathieu tried again, "look at this. This is what will happen to your teeth if you binge by throwing up. Do you see the damage done?"

"Yuck! Sick, dude! I'm eating!"

Canada rolled his eyes, because even though he had turned the laptop monitor to face his brother – who was already gagging and making disgusted faces – he was _still _eating as if he hadn't a care in the world! How could he do it? Canada was fine with gore, he played hockey on a regular basis, but even he would have struggled to eat with the several photographs staring at him from the other side of the shiny computer screen. It was just insane!

"Bro," Alfred snapped, "people with bulimia throw up and stuff, like all the time! If I did that I'd have awful teeth by now, not all white and shiny teeth, I'd end up with teeth like Britain, and no one wants that!"

"H-how dare you perpetuate such an outdated stereotype?"

"You know it's true!"

How was it that everything was cause for an argument with these two? He sometimes wondered if Francis was right, maybe it _was _sexual tensions, after all wasn't Alfred devastated when Arthur didn't get him Valentine's chocolates? Huh, then again maybe he was just upset that he didn't get something to _eat_. They hadn't considered each other as 'brothers' since before the revolutionary war, but there were still signs that Arthur thought of Alfred in a more paternal/brotherly light. Mathieu just didn't know what they thought about one another. Unlike Francis he didn't care.

"L-look," Canada continued, "you get cold easily, don't you? You always try to hibernate in winter! It says here that low body-temperature is a symptom, because you just don't have the fat density to keep you warm."

"What site are you even looking at?"

Mathieu shrugged and pushed the laptop forward for his brother to get a better look. He tried to eat his meal as quickly as possible, because the colder Britain's cooking got the less edible it became. He saw England from over his glasses. The older nation had pulled up a chair and was sitting beside America quite closely, desperately trying to look over the younger man's shoulder as he nursed a hot cup of tea. England and his tea . . . Canada could never seem to make it right!

'You do not leave the teabag in the cup!' . . . 'This isn't real tea, why does it taste like Jasmine?' . . . 'Seriously, lad, you don't use a teacup at this time of day, least of all just for a quick pick-me-up drink!' . . . 'You Yanks, you don't know the etiquette behind drinking and eating at all, do you?'

Well, at least for the last criticism it had been America to get the blame about not knowing right from wrong, but on a more serous note . . . was England's obsessive and rather anal attitude to eating what pushed America over the edge? Canada could remember all those rules growing up from Britain and France. You had to eat using the cutlery from the outside in, you never put your elbows on the table, you also weren't to switch the knife to your dominant hand to cut, and then there were the rules about what to say and what topics were safe . . . he still couldn't remember half of it.

"Oh, come on!" America said loudly. "You're looking at _Wikipedia_! No one uses this for research, unless you're a student too lazy to make real notes or a teenage girl looking to write bad fanfiction."

Mathieu pursed his lips and pulled the laptop back. He was going to write a_ very _strongly worded email to America's boss, except as the laptop scraped its way back to him _someone _was pulling it back. He glared hard at his brother, but Alfred wasn't willing to let go. He pulled back. Alfred pulled too. In the end the laptop was going back and forth, back and forth, with both brothers yelling at the other to let go and be mature. It was only when Arthur marched around the table and lifted it up that they both stopped arguing. If Arthur wanted it then he could have it!

"Let me have a look for just one mo, okay?"

"Hey, I wanted to have a look too!" Alfred shouted.

"It's _my _laptop," Mathieu snapped.

Arthur rolled his eyes and put the laptop firmly on the table between them: "You boys need to read this list properly. I don't think a third of these even apply to America, and you also haven't considered commonsense explanations. Some people _do _have fast metabolisms, nearly _everyone _is a little weight conscious, and if Alfred were anorexic or bulimic then he wouldn't be as healthy as he is. Do either of you know anyone as strong – or stronger – than America?"

Mathieu pouted a little and took a bite of his fish. The truth was that some people did have fast metabolisms, such as how Italy always managed to eat pasta by the plateful and yet stay quite attractive, and it was true everyone worried about weight to some extent, such as when Germany and Japan decided to diet together and create a workout plan. It was just . . . this was _America_!

It was different when it was someone else, but when it was someone you could connect with, someone you could relate to, then it was different. It was no longer about how he saw the others every other day eating a tomato, or their ability to create excruciatingly fancy desserts whilst never eating them themselves, or even how they recommended a diet of famine and starvation to others . . . no, the other nations were just as bad, if not more so, but they weren't _America_. If Belarus presented the same 'symptoms' then Canada probably would never have noticed, but this was his brother, his flesh and blood, and he cared . . . he cared!

"You can't deny America has a problem," Canada muttered stubbornly. "Look, the signs are a fixation on calories consumed, fixation on weight, and weight fluctuations. That's just only some of it, too!"

"Yeah," Alfred continued, as he leaned on the table and stared at the screen. "I could also have an irregular menstrual cycle, more bathroom trips than a man with a prostate problem, and calluses and scars on my hand from purging. Face it, Bro, you _can't _diagnose someone from an online list. Dude, I just want to look good and like food, that's all. I'll even go see a doctor if you don't believe me."

"No, it's fine, Alfred, but . . . are you sure?"

Alfred stood up abruptly and fist-punched the air. The smile on his lips seemed so sincere and warm, almost like nothing was wrong, which – as he claimed – nothing _was_ wrong. It was true that America had a lot of muscle, that he was physically fit, and it wasn't as though Canada could see his ribs or any of his bones, in fact he _did _wear exceptionally tight clothing for the most part, didn't he? Maybe Canada was worrying over nothing? Maybe everything was okay?

His brother marched around the table and then hooked his arm underneath Canada, lifting him up with such strength that he may as well have been lifting a feather. How did he _do _that? How could he swing a buffalo by the horns as a child, or carry a car for more than an hour as an adult? It was enough to make Mathieu jealous. It just wasn't fair that someone could eat so much and stay so thin.

"Come on, I'll treat you to a meal, Mattie!"

"T-that doesn't prove – l-let me go! Alfred! Let go!"

"Nah, man! We're going out! Catch you later, Artie! We'll be back for dinner!"

"We just ate, Alfred! Alfred, I mean it! Alfred -!"

"Later, Artie!"

Arthur watched as Mathieu was effectively dragged out of the kitchen by his arm, whilst Alfred laughed almost manically and completely oblivious to his brother's lack of interest in going out. They were just so different. It was impossible to tell that they were even related, aside from the physical resemblance, and to see them side-by-side and bonding – albeit in such a strange way – was rather heart-warming.

Britain had always been the 'black sheep of Europe' growing up. He still was. He never had that affectionate sibling rivalry that America and Canada had, because the rest of Europe seemed to completely dislike him. Hell, France seemed to spend every second tormenting him or bullying him, and when he wasn't then he was being made the butt of some joke. He never had anyone like those two siblings did. Even when Canada made America cry that one time they still loved one another, and it was Canada who manipulated America during the war into reading England's letters of apology. Canada loved his brother so much. It was no wonder that he would worry about something like this, even if he were completely wrong in his assumptions . . .

Arthur picked up Matthew's plate and stared at the half-eaten contents. It was a little hurtful to think that there was another person who didn't like his food, but at the same time it was nice that he tried to eat it. Of course, Alfred's plate was completely clean. It would take a small miracle to stop _that one _from eating. Still, it seemed a waste, and Arthur hated looking at a full plate . . . the only thing worse was an empty plate . . .

"Disgusting."

Arthur dumped the leftovers into the bin with a curled lip. It was hard to believe that anyone would think that Alfred would have a problem, because Alfred was just brimming with confidence and self-esteem, not only that but he always – no matter what the diet or exercise schedule – maintained a healthy body . . . unlike Arthur. No, it was a chore for him to smile some mornings, never easy to open up to another person, and his only joy these days seemed to come from cooking . . . not that anyone ever appreciated it. What could he do? It was just another day . . .

He ought to get started on dinner. He had no doubts that Alfred would be hungry by the time they returned, most likely because with so much energy and hyperactivity that no sooner had he consumed a single calorie had he already burned it. Ah, if only Arthur could have a metabolism like that! It must have been nice to be so young. He grabbed the hamburger meat from out the fridge and felt his stomach churn.

"Disgusting . . ."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you very much to Selia for their review! It really means to world to get such detailed feedback. Thanks to everyone who has fave'd or alerted this story too.

**Chapter Two**

"Oh, it's _you_."

Arthur glared at Francis rather darkly.

The Frenchman stood on the other side of the door with a rather confident grin. Frankly he looked more foppish than usual with his ridiculous new hairstyle, slightly parted to the right so that his hair fell over his left eye, and – _had he curled it_? It looked like he had put bloody ringlets into the ends! If there was one thing Britain couldn't stand at the best of times, it was lateness, but when it was _France_ . . .

There was a long moment between them as they stood staring at one another, each one waiting for the other to make the first move or say the first word. The door in Arthur's hand felt heavy and hard as he stood with his grip upon it, caught between opening it and slamming it shut, meanwhile Francis leaned against the doorframe with shining blond locks damp from the light rain. There was something in France's blue eyes that seemed to suggest a deeper knowing, some sort of devilish understanding, and it just made England want to punch him. It would feel _so_ good to punch him.

"_Oui, mon ami. C'est moi!_" Francis chirped. "If you would just – hey! _Stop_!"

"G-get off, you – you _idiot_! Get off!"

Arthur pushed as hard as he could against the door. He kept a hold of the doorknob as he threw his entire weight against the door, but – no matter how hard he pushed – the damned Frenchman just seemed to be a _little _bit stronger. He literally had his foot in the door for a start! England wouldn't have been able to close the door – even if he _could _– without breaking the frog's foot.

"I told you to get off!" England found himself a little out of breath as he flattened his back against the door and dug his feet into the carpet. "What bloody idiot comes back at _this _time of night? Even Alfred is already asleep!"

"Oh, you can not blame me for being a little late," Francis called as he finally managed to squeeze his arm and head through the gap in the door. "There was this _belle fille _working at the French restaurant and, well, I guess she could not resist my charm! You can not blame me for that, can you?"

"Yes -! I -! Can -! _Argh_!"

Arthur stumbled back into the hallway and only just managed to prevent himself from falling over completely. If the damned frog hadn't been so strong -! Arthur knew that usually he would have been able to beat Francis only using half his strength, but he was just so exhausted and so dizzy. It was too late at night for this nonsense. His head felt stuffed full with cotton wool and his muscles ached. It felt as if just walking were too much effort, and so to be forced to try and force out a rather muscular Frenchman at eleven in the evening was just too much. Fine, if Francis wanted to come in then he wouldn't stop him. It was just too much effort to try.

He bent over slightly and rubbed at his sore joints, all whilst he glared daggers at the idiotic man standing before him. It was such an insult to even _look _at him! The bloody git was standing there with hands on his hips and laughing like some damned twit, it was the sort of maniacal gloat that Britain only ever heard from those clichéd movies of America's. It riled him to the core. Francis _hadn't _won. He had only been privilege to a spate of good luck and a slip of strength on England's part.

"You are too weak, _Angleterre_! I always said you were too slender!"

The air seemed to turn icy.

There was a rather dark silence between the two of them, one nothing like the previous one. It had been a challenge before, a sort of sibling rivalry between two childhood friends, but now it was different. It was the awkward air of something cruel being said, but with the uncomfortable realisation that the offending party had no true understanding of what had been said or just why it had hurt so.

Suddenly Britain turned around and stormed out of the hallway and straight into the kitchen, where he had been busy tidying before the doorbell had been so rudely pressed so late in the evening. There was a lingering scent of freshly baked bread in the air. It was rather comforting, because there was just something about cooking that made Arthur feel . . . _content_. It was almost like an art, and with each and every recipe he had the power to express himself and experiment with his creativity, and to then share that with others was something of a blessing. Of course, only _Alfred _seemed to enjoy his creations, but if he could just make one person smile then it was worth it.

There was a sound of the front door snapping closed and the sound of a lock turning. Well, at least Francis had the manners to close the door this time, and hopefully he would find the manners to leave Arthur alone and just go straight to bed, or – more accurately – straight to the shower. Arthur curled his lip in disgust. Yes, he knew _exactly _what Francis was like at this point in time. That man was a bad influence on the others too, and especially on Alfred.

"Oh, _oui_, someone is throwing a tantrum again!"

The way that was said in such a singsong manner irked Arthur. It felt too patronising, like he was being mocked, and he would _not _have someone disrespecting him in his own home. It had been a very trying time lately. Nothing had been going as it should, everything seemed to be falling apart, and he had the _worst _cold in nearly a century, one that just wouldn't go away in this blasted economic climate. It didn't help when _some idiot _decided to mock him for simply daring to express his emotions. It just cut him like a knife, like the deepest of insults.

"Shut up, you!" Britain snapped, as he grabbed a knife and brandished it in France's direction. "I should never have invited you to stay! Didn't I send you a link to a list of hotels here you could stay at? There were plenty of hotels all over my country!"

"Yes, and most of them were haunted!"

"I don't think the Hilton is haunted, France! There were plenty of modern hotels on that list too! Face it, you're only here because Matthew is here, and you just can't miss a chance to tell me what a horrendous job I'm doing looking after him, can you? I wouldn't mind, except he's a bleeding adult now!"

Francis rolled his eyes. It was a gesture that irritated England, but – then again – everything Francis did irritated England. One of the other nations once told him that their rivalry stemmed from them being too similar, that such strongly similar personalities always clashed, like two magnets with the same facing poles. It had felt like the _worst _insult in the world. England was sure it wasn't just stubbornness making him feel that way, because when Francis pranced in and flopped down on a dining room chair it felt too foppish to be true.

"Well, you could at least bloody show some respect whilst you're here!" Arthur snapped, as he grabbed the kettle and filled it with water. "Coming back home at eleven o'clock at night, after some conquest, is a bad influence on Matthew and Alfred! I won't have you breaking rules like that!"

"Oh, Britain, always with the joke telling! _I'm _a bad influence? You tried to get my _Amerique _drunk! I at least recognised he is underage and refused to serve him such concoctions!"

"You drink wine like a fish drinks water! Do you even know how many calories are in a single glass of wine? You should show some self-restraint! No wonder America eats like he does when he sees you acting like that!" England rolled his eyes and turned the kettle on as he slammed two mugs onto the counter. "I swear that sometimes I'm the only nation with any self-control!"

"Oh, so _this _is what it comes down to?"

England's hand froze as he reached for the box of tealeaves.

It was only a brief hesitation, one that was barely noticeable, but he knew – he just _knew _– that France would have noticed it too. He hadn't expected a man so self-absorbed to be so observant, but then again Francis had always been the centre of culture and art. It meant that he had opened himself up to the world numerous times, whether by choice or by force, and so he had come to understand those around him like he did himself. _He had to_. He didn't get to be so damned 'charming' by being blind to the needs and wants of others. He wouldn't have had so many conquests if he had been socially obtuse.

Arthur drew in a deep breath and dropped several scoops of tealeaves into the teapot, then felt a surge of utmost relief when he heard the kettle click itself off. He poured the water into the pot and waited for it to stew. There could be no greater invention than the electric kettle, and tea itself had to be the greatest benefit from the controversy of his colonialism days. Right, now where was the tea strainer?

"_Salut_!" Francis snapped. "I am talking to you!"

"Yes, I heard you! Now keep your annoying, _whiney _voice down! Do you know what Alfred did when he got back? He watched a horror movie! If he wakes up I'm going to be forced to spend half the night getting him back to sleep!"

"Oh, _sacré bleu_! He is an adult! You do not need to spoil him anymore. If you are so concerned about looking after other people, why do you not look after yourself?" France huffed loudly and crossed his arms. "Even when you are sick you always think about that _bouffon_! Just the same way _you_ . . . _are_ . . . _sick_ . . . _now_."

"Shut up! I am not sick!"

Arthur slammed the sugar-pot onto the table. He began to pour the sugar into the cups so violently that it spilled all over the kitchen counter. There was a tiny part of him that saw the mess and instinctively wanted to clean it, to tidy the one messy part of his kitchen, to take control and clean up his mistake, but at the same time he forced himself to resist the urge to clean. He didn't want that blasted idiot to think that he was calm, that the anger was abated, because the anger _wouldn't _go away. Francis had no place or right to talk about this!

"Look," Arthur snapped, "if you came back just to lecture me, then you can think again! I don't even know what you're implying! You have a cold just as much as I do! I don't think anyone is properly healthy, other than Germany and China anyway."

"Oh? Then how much do you weigh?"

_That bloody bastard . . . _

He always asked such inappropriate questions! If he weren't arguing over who invented the condom then he was forcibly trying to undress someone, and if he weren't recommending very unhealthy weight-loss methods to Alfred then he was busy drinking himself into an early grave! That was a question Arthur didn't want to answer at the best of times, but to answer that to a man that drove him insane -?

In a strange way this conversation – had many times over the past two-hundred-and-fifty or so years – was oddly easier with someone like France. There was animosity between them, yes, but also just enough friendship – even if hard-pressed to _admit _it – that he could respect the fact that France cared about him and wanted him to be somewhat healthy. In a way the animosity made it easier. Here was someone who cared about his health, but at the same time someone whose opinion of him was pretty low, and so it felt as if Arthur could be honest. It couldn't be possible for Francis to think any lower of him, after all, so why _not_ be honest?

Arthur drew in a deep breath and poured the hot water through the strainer and relished in the scent of the tea, using it to ground himself. There was a doubt in his mind that Francis meant well, even though when push came to shove the Frenchman had never hurt him or harmed him, but that wasn't to say Francis had never embarrassed him or belittled him over the years. One specific April Fools' sprang to mind and made him bite his lip in anger.

"What's it to you?" Arthur snapped.

"We are the exact same height! We are both five-foot nine! How is it that we are the same height and similar age, but you look so much thinner than I do?"

"Oh, I see! So this is what this is about," Arthur laughed. It was a rather forced laugh, but a lot of his laughter these days seemed to be forced, or at least when he wasn't in the midst of gloating. "You're jealous! Well now, France, if you wanted some dieting tips all you had to do was ask! An old man like you must find it hard, what with your slowing metabolism and all!"

"T-that is not it at all! I think you are starving yourself again! I am worried!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and slammed the mug full of tea brutally in front of Francis. The hot contents spilled over the sides slightly, just enough to drop onto the frog's trousers and cause him to scald himself, and yet there was just something about seeing France jump out of seat in pain that made Arthur feel slightly better about himself. The Frenchman began to curse loudly in his native language and patted down his trousers manically, meanwhile Arthur slipped into the opposite chair with a smug smirk and sipped his own tea.

"You did that on purpose!"

"It was an accident," England replied. He crossed his legs and relished in the moment. "A very _fortunate _accident, I'll admit, but an accident nonetheless. Look, not that it's any of your business, but my weight is fine. I weighed myself twice today, and I was eight stone and four pounds each time. That's fifty-two kilograms to _you_."

"That isn't fine! That is positively _not _fine!"

England shrugged and continued to sip his tea. It would be all too easy to fall into the role of the 'black sheep of Europe' and start a fight with France over something that was ultimately so trivial, but he refused to give in this time. It didn't matter what weight he was, and so the very fact that Francis would try to make this into a big deal, almost as if _Arthur _were the problem . . . well, he wasn't going to play into that delusion by reacting strongly. It would only fuel France's belief that something was wrong. The fact of the matter was that everything was fine.

It had taken a bloody long time to get to his ideal weight, and frankly he was rather proud of the sacrifices and self-control that he had shown in reaching that self-imposed goal. There had been a time long ago when he was nothing more than a 'punk', some rebellious man seeking to act out, but he wasn't that way anymore. He was a gentleman. He was _somebody_. He had an image to maintain, and the very fact that he was doing his best to maintain it showed maturity.

"What is this," Francis asked, "your latest crash diet?"

"Oh, cram it, you frog!" Arthur snapped. "I was getting a bit podgy so I went on a diet, what's it to you?"

"_Rien_. It's nothing to me if you want to lose some weight."

"Well, there you are then –"

"Until you fall asleep in meetings, which embarrassed poor _Amerique _half to death! Not to mention your general ability to fall asleep so easily, even when you were scared half to death and were forced to share America's bed you _still _fell asleep almost instantly! These so-called 'diets' exhaust you."

"They're bloody working, aren't they? Shut it!"

The look of pity he received from Francis made him furious. What did that bloody man know about restraint? He never endured long periods of isolation like England or Japan did, he never endured the periods of extreme poverty that Germany once had, and he _certainly _never wanted for food. If anything he spent every moment throwing his bloody culinary skills in Britain's face every chance he got!

'_Oh, _oui_, you want some beef? Well, we do not call it 'cow', you must call it _boeuf!_' . . . 'why would I teach you _my _recipes, you would only ruin them!' . . . 'It is no wonder that our _Amerique _is so obese, he learned all his habits from _you.'

It was difficult. His whole life he had been told that he was nothing, despite all his achievements. Hell, the world _still _managed to make his hard work seem to be in vain, because his accomplishments – his art, his history, and his empire – were all criticised and reduced to nought! His empire? It was an expression of the evils of colonialism. His literature? It was impossible to read and could barely compete to modern forms of media. His _soul_? It was too sarcastic to understand and too stoic to enjoy. Well, he wasn't going to dwell on _that. _It was time to take charge.

"Very well," Francis said sternly, "why don't you tell me how the first few days of this diet went? _Vous n'êtes pas seul. _I think we have _all _dieted at some point, have we not? I am curious. You must feel hungry, do you not?"

"Well, at first I did," Arthur admitted. He raised an eyebrow in a sceptical sort of curiosity, as he wondered where the conversation was headed. "The first few days are the absolute worst. You should know what starvation is like considering _your _country's idea of an ideal in the modelling industry."

"_Oui_, get in a cheap shot. Very mature!"

"France, I don't know why you're damn well asking! It was difficult, yes, but when the hunger kicks in there are tricks to keep it at bay. It sometimes helps to drink water. I found that if you just _wait it out _that the hunger goes away, rather like the appetite equivalent of a 'second wind'. You stop feeling it after a while. If you're worried about me feeling hungry then you needn't."

"You must feel it at times, _non_?"

"I do, but I try to ignore it. I suppose it doesn't help my mood, I shall admit, but it's very hard to feel happy when you're feeling a bit peckish. You can forgive me for being occasionally a bit grumpy."

"So you ignore the hunger?"

"Well, I also do get a bit naughty at times, I'll have the odd plain biscuit to keep the hunger away."

There was a sound from somewhere in the hallway.

Arthur and Francis turned their heads to see what had caused the sound. It reminded England a little of the days where Alfred would slide downstairs as a toddler on his bum, with a little thud as he slid down each step individually. In modern day Arthur had once told America that it sounded like a serial killer dragging a body down a flight of stairs, which meant that America had once attacked Canada in a panic when the other nation sleepily dragged Kumajiro upstairs one morning. He would have to be more careful what he said.

There wasn't anyone outside the door, nor was there anyone to the open doors to the right of the room, and so Arthur had to conclude that it was just one of the bloody ghosts playing havoc again. Of course, someone like Francis would probably put it down to the window in his bedroom slamming shut, having left it open by mistake, but Arthur knew how active spirits could get in the wee hours.

"So you are eating regularly?" Francis asked.

Arthur looked back to the blond and rolled his eyes. Why was he so obsessed with Britain's weight? It wasn't as though he couldn't stand to lose a few pounds, because he was getting a tad chubby as of late. His weight was all that he had too. He had eyebrows that made it look as if caterpillars were crawling across his face, hair that always looked as if he had just woken up . . . Francis couldn't begrudge him for wanting at least _one _attractive quality.

"Of course!" Arthur spat. "I have my first bite to eat at four o'clock for dinner, and then I'll have a very light snack at eight o'clock to keep me healthy. I'm not a fool. I know that a refusal to eat equals starvation. All I'm doing is limiting my fat intake."

"You used to exercise all the time though!" Francis countered. "Couldn't you just eat normally and then keep healthy by exercising? Why can't you just go back to doing that? I am sure Germany would be happy to help you if you just asked! I know that you prefer to laze about, but what harm would there be from some jogging once and a while? It would be healthier."

"No, it wouldn't! I _tried _that already, you bloody fool! I worked out and exercised and maintained a healthy diet, but no matter _what _I did America was always one step ahead! If I worked out for a day in a sweat, in an hour – _one measly hour _– he would have dragged an entire car to me without _breaking_ even a sweat!"

"_Oui_, and then you binged!"

"I did _not _binge," Arthur growled out. "I just made a stealthy retreat into the comfort of home in order to reconsider my options, _then_ decided that if I couldn't be as strong as some of you then I would have to lose weight with other methods."

"Ah, so many triggers! _Si compliqué_! Is that what triggered your need to lose weight this time? Is this about America? Are you jealous of him?"

"No! I'm -!"

Arthur slammed his mug hard onto the table. The force of it dented the surface of the wood and cracked part of the mug, which was a shame considering that he rather liked that mug. It was difficult to remain calm when he was being accused of such things! It was more than that though, but it was late at night – close to half-past eleven according to the clock – and he was hungry. He couldn't help but feel annoyed.

He could feel his stomach clench a little, almost as if someone had their fingernails in his flesh, and that same sharp and acute stabbing feeling prevented him from moving too much. It felt as if the more he moved the more he would feel it. It didn't stop the thoughts though, the fact he _knew _he was hungry, and it seemed that his every waking moment these days was focussed entirely on his hunger and need for food. He used to feel weak for thinking about it so much, but when he knew that he was in control of his actions, that he was _resisting _temptation, then he felt strong again.

There was a shadow from the corner of his eye in the hallway. He drew in a deep breath and sighed. It couldn't be Matthew, could it? That boy always seemed to invisibly position himself in plain sight and yet not be seen. The whole conversation left Arthur feeling vulnerable and exposed, and the very last thing he wanted was for one of the two brothers to be listening in on him. He ignored it for the moment, just because he knew Kumajiro and Tony were also lurking about.

"No," England said calmly as he could. "I'm not jealous of America."

"It would explain why you're so sensitive about his weight. Always with the name-calling and judging! You constantly cook for him and yet belittle him about his weight with the same breath! He has such a good body too . . . I liked him in that outfit with just the boxers and bear ears. I noticed _you _covered up though. Ah, my _Angleterre _is so self-conscious about his body!"

"I just wore the outfit that you -! Look, just listen for once, you twat! I care about Alfred a lot; he's my entire world . . . I've been heartbroken for centuries and yet I'm still buying him chocolates on Valentines, I'm baking him scones when he visits, I may have even offered – in a way – to keep him warm when we were stranded on that island all alone . . . I don't understand myself. I just see him and it bloody infuriates me! I'm not jealous, he can eat what he wants, but I –"

"You are projecting your own fears on him, _non_? I have seen others do the same thing. You are either very afraid of him gaining weight in the way that you feel you have, or you are so sensitive about the issue of weight that everyone looks fat to you, even when they are thin! Big Brother knows these things!"

"Y-you're an idiot! That was just amateur nonsense!"

It was true. It was. France was simply spouting off some pop psychology garnered from too many talk shows and gossip magazines, and yet somehow – for some reason – there was a grain of truth in what he said. Arthur couldn't help but look at Alfred and see someone . . . _perfect_. He wasn't made of muscle like Spain was, nor was he fragile and lacking definition like Italy, instead he was just plain perfect.

How was it fair though? He ate like a starving pig and always wanted seconds, he had no concept of portion control, and he seemed to crave carbohydrates, cholesterol, and insane amounts of fat. He should have been obese! Even when he gained weight it seemed to be solely because that he was gaining muscle rather than actual fat, and every time that England looked at him he just saw a strong and handsome lad with infinite potential. How could it come so easily to him? It was hard _not _to feel inferior in comparison. England needed self-control, then – maybe – he'd look that good too.

"You're too sensitive, _mon ami_," Francis said. "What has made you do this?"

"Oh, I don't know," England replied with a sigh. "I suppose a lot has happened lately. It's strange, because you know bloody well I've learned to cope with this over the decades, but I think with one things being piled onto another that it's been difficult. You blame yourself for one thing, then someone else says something else, then suddenly you've made unhealthy and unrealistic connections and made five from two plus two."

"So you know that you do not need to lose weight?"

"I know in my head that I don't," Arthur admitted sadly. "I know that my body-mass index puts me as 'underweight', I know that other people say that I'm too slender or small, but in here it feels different. I feel fat and weak."

He gave a sad sigh and thought about his appearance. It didn't help when everyone seemed to have _something _that made them 'handsome' or 'beautiful' or 'cute', whereas Britain had always been the 'bad dresser' and the one with big eyebrows and messy hair and a bad attitude. He had been strong, no doubt about that, but that was then and this was now. He had never matched up to America. Now he was simply living in America's shadow and known only as America's ally and the only member of Europe that sought to be out of it. What did he have apart from his weight?

"A-ah, anyway!" England leaned back in his chair and laughed loudly. He closed his eyes and tried to sound confident, but he was sure an element of insecurity seeped through. "You're just being ridiculous, France! Everyone has moments when they feel down and out. I know _you _sulked for ages after the Norman Conquest when I kicked your ass back out!"

"T-that was different, _vouz __imbécile_! I did not starve myself as you are! I only have one last question for you: why are you doing this to yourself? What is the reason?"

"I would rather not talk about it with _you_, stupid Francey-pants."

"Oh, _oui_, I understand. I'll just go then, shall I?"

Arthur rolled his eyes as Francis got up. He wasn't going to ask the prat to stay, especially not when he had said what he just did in a singsong and sarcastic voice, almost as if _mocking _England and expecting him to stop him from leaving. He couldn't stand Francis anyway, they just were far too different personalities, and so the Frenchman had to be delusional if he thought Arthur would just open up to him! He would have to be _insane _to listen to France!

Then again it _was _getting close to midnight, and it wasn't as though Matthew or Alfred were awake for company, and if he called any of the other nations then they wouldn't be too impressed at being awoken at this time of night. He also couldn't think of anyone else that he _could _open up to. Francis wasn't the judgemental sort, in fact he was a rather attentive listener when he wasn't busy being argumentative, and he certainly knew how to keep a secret. He didn't gossip like Prussia, he always knew the right thing to say, unlike Spain, and he genuinely had wisdom behind his years. It wasn't that England _wanted _to talk to him, but it couldn't _hurt_.

"W-wait! You still have some tea left," Arthur murmured. "It'd be a shame to waste it. I made it especially for you, even though you _were _late."

"I suppose I could finish it, but we would need conversation, _non_?"

"Look, you -!"

"I know, it is difficult," Francis said sadly, as he took a seat. "I felt the same when I lost my lovely Joan, it was such a great grief! My only joy came from my belief that those who are toyed with by history are given life once again as ordinary citizens, and to this day I still believe I saw her with a smile of infinite joy upon her face, so beautiful as I remembered! We all know sadness."

"I-it's not just sadness, France!"

He glared darkly at his so-called friend. It was only begrudgingly that he would admit he somewhat had less than hateful feelings to this blond, and so to admit that he actually felt he could trust him would be a bit of a far stretch . . . the fact was he _didn't _quite trust France yet. He expected him to smirk in his corner, or to just stare at him with wide eyes as if this were over a mere crush, or to even secretly try to film his confession. It wasn't that he didn't want to trust the lecherous pervert, just that he knew him too well to assume that this was entirely altruistic.

"I used to be so great," he said sadly . . .

'_You know why' . . . 'I remember when you were great.'_

"I think it started the other year when Prussia nearly died from eating my cooking," England said sadly. "I guess when I found out it was all because of a dare and saw the comments you guys made, well, it hurt a lot. I already knew I was the black sheep, but to be mocked so openly when I was trying so very hard -! Aha! It's no big deal, I'll get my own back eventually, but I guess it left that little seed of doubt in my head. It made me wonder if there was something wrong with me, some reason why I deserved those kinds of comments and teasing."

"_Mon ami,_ that was four years ago!"

"It may as well be four days, you bloody poof! You're one to talk about holding onto the past! You hold onto things like a dog with a bone! Look, you weren't the one whose brothers shot arrows at him when he came too close, who used to live in complete isolation, who then got abandoned by the one person closest to him! You don't know what it's like to be so alone and doubt _everything _about yourself!

"I always question if I'm too ugly, too weak, too blunt, too stupid . . . I've reinvented myself a hundred times over the years! I've gone from druid to pirate to punk to gentleman! Does anyone notice? No! I get treated by you all the exact same way I always have! America tells me to drop dead, you call me an ex-delinquent, and Spain still can't forgive me for stealing away his gold! What can I do? It feels like my weight is all that I have, the _only _thing in my control, and the only thing I can be proud of, so maybe – just maybe – if I can get thin enough people will like me again."

"Oh, _mon __frère_! I did not know this was so serious! I remember your punk phase; you nearly starved yourself to death. This relapse cannot be good. You know that you are not alone, though? Do you know how hard _Amerique _cried when you cheated on the online game he tried so hard to impress you on? It was the only time I have seen him so sad! You are still Hong Kong's role model too, he mimics you so!"

"Oh, bugger off, will you? I'm done with talking." England drew in a deep breath and snatched the mug from Francis quite forcefully. "I'm going to finish up cleaning and then sod off back to bloody bed. You better go too, you git."

"Ah, does my _Angleterre_ worry about me?"

"N-no! I just don't want America getting the wrong idea about us, or copying your bad influences by staying up all night! Plus the longer we talk about this the more chance someone will overhear. Just go, will you? I'm tired. I haven't eaten since five o'clock and I'm running on empty."

Arthur stormed across the kitchen to the sink. It was times like these he wished he had some of the American commodities like garbage-disposal and air-conditioning, just because he was beginning to feel rather warm in what felt like a workout. The very act of simply standing up and down, moving back and forth, felt rather exhausting, and he still couldn't shake the feeling that his joints were swollen and aching.

He felt emotionally vulnerable and rather exposed from the conversation, and the very last person he wanted to see him exposed in such a way was _France_. His only consolation was that it hadn't been America asking him such questions, because he wasn't sure that he could bear that, especially not when the younger man's opinion of him was already so low. It wasn't that he was _ashamed _– of course he wasn't! – it was simply that this was a very delicate topic, that was all . . . anyone would have been uncomfortable given the subject matter. He was just glad that France was going to bed. He couldn't bear to look at him right then.

Francis stood up with a smile and stretched a little in the dark room. The blond man gave out a rather sad and defeated sigh and walked at a slow pace towards the door to the hall, his footsteps slow and graceful. England tried not to turn around and look at him, because if he did then he may just have felt a tinge of guilt at what he was doing to what some – although not himself – would call a 'friend'. Not that he would feel guilty, of course, but still -! He didn't want to look at the man anyway!

"Very well," Francis said, "just promise me you'll talk to someone, _oui_?"

"Just bloody go away, Frog!"

"_Bonne nuit_!"

The Frenchman pranced off with _far _too much energy than could be normal at that time of night, and he seemed to be humming a song to himself that – for some reason – reminded England a little of Italy. It was difficult not to turn slightly and watch him though, just because it reminded England of better days, of days when everyone seemed to get along and everything was a source of pleasure and enjoyment. It was always about bickering and arguing nowadays, and everyone seemed to judge everyone for things that were just . . . well . . . trivial.

No sooner was Francis out of the door did he head straight for the staircase, which lay just out of sight from where England tidied up in the kitchen. He heard the Frenchman climb a few of the stairs, but after the third step he stopped, paused, and then let out a large laugh. That was suspicious in itself, but Arthur ignored it. He couldn't do anything _but _ignore it, until:

'_Ah, _Amerique_, are you well?'_

"Not funny, you prat!"

There was that laughter again.

This was why he never felt like talking to that bloody git! He was too immature and always resorted either to blackmail or emotional teasing and abuse! This wasn't a joke and he would not let the frog get away with it . . . even if he had to wake America up just so he would cause noise all night, or be the one to cook breakfast in the morning, one way or another he'd get the Frenchman back!

If he weren't so consumed with his own anger and pain then he would have perhaps heard two sets of footsteps climbing the staircase, or the murmured whisperings of two hushed voices, but he didn't . . . he didn't hear anything . . .

It was perhaps for the best.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I'm not very fond of this chapter, so I do apologise in advance if the quality is lacking in comparison to the others. The next chapter will be in a different POV though, so the style should return somewhat to the previous chapters.

Thanks again to Selia for the kind review :)

**Chapter Three**

"_M-Mr Britain?"_

_Alfred rubbed at his eyes with a tiny fist. It was difficult to breathe through the choked sobs and running nose, but he tried his best to be brave, because that's what adults were: brave. He wanted to make Britain proud. He wanted to stand on his own two feet and prove that he was a big boy now. It was just difficult when he was so scared! _

_It was so dark outside too. The tree outside his window had grown long and gnarly branches; branches that kept scratching at his windowpane and sent twisted and entwined shadows about his bedroom floor. They looked so scary! There was a shadow that kept moving in and out of the moonlight, which kept dancing about his door, and it looked just like a wicked witch! America had heard stories from the other adults and Britain! Weren't there witches who would steal children away? _

"_Mr Britain! Mr Britain! Where are you?"_

"_Here, lad! Here!"_

_Alfred felt his body sag in complete relief. It would be okay! It would be okay, because Britain was right outside his door and would chase away the big and scary monsters! All monsters were scared of Britain, even Spain and France, and those were the scariest monsters of all! Britain said so. He was big and tall and kept Alfred safe and always visited him and made sure he was okay. Britain was his hero. _

_The bedroom door creaked open, which caused Alfred to wince and let out a long moan of fear. He hated that door. It sounded just like the scary doors did in the stories Britain always told him, and Britain always made the most convincing sound effects and voices. If it weren't for the shadow of Britain in the doorway then he might have run away. Luckily, even in the dark, he would recognise the face of his hero anywhere, a man so great that 'great' was even a part of his name! He was big and powerful. He was the hero of the world who _owned _a quarter of the world_!

Britain wore a bright and big smile of absolute love. He always looked so happy, but today he seemed especially so, which was weird when the storm outside was so creepy and the candles had all gone out. He was wearing one of those stuffy and old shirts and carrying a silver tray in his hand. There was a milk jug, a tray of biscuits, a pot of tea, and . . . a candle! He had a candle! Alfred wouldn't have to be scared!

"_I managed to find a candle in the cellar," Britain said, as he placed the tray down on a bedside table. "I'm sorry, lad. I should have brought some more candles and oil in town, but I completely forgot. Why don't I light this one just for you?"_

"_Really? Yay! Thank you, Mr Britain! It gets so scary at night."_

"_Is that why you're out of bed? You didn't wet the bed again, did you?"_

_Alfred sniffed loudly and wiped his nose along his nightshirt. He had seen some of the boys around him get yelled at when they wet the bed, or their parents would seem to be rather annoyed, but Mr Britain never got angry or annoyed. He would just change the sheets and tell Alfred that it was normal for young boys, then fall asleep next to him halfway through telling him a story. _

"_N-no," Alfred said, as he sniffed and rubbed his red eyes. "I just got really scared! I think there's a monster under my bed and he's going to eat me! I had a scary nightmare and there was a monster under there!"_

"_Was there really? Well, I'll just have to check then."_

_Mr Britain walked over to the bed and crawled down to look underneath. It was always so weird, because Alfred just didn't understand why he just didn't lift the bed up with one finger. It'd be so much easier. Alfred could lift _two _beds with just his finger! Mr Britain had to be able to do the same, right? He was the strongest person in the entire world! Nothing could bring Britain to his knees!_

_The Englishman wafted his hand underneath the bed, then stood up with a sigh and lit the candle and leaned down for another look, but it seemed that there really _wasn't _a monster under there. Alfred watched as his guardian stood up and dusted himself down and put the candle to one side. It took a while, but – eventually – Alfred felt brave enough to take a look under the bed himself, because if Mr Britain could do it then he could too! There wasn't a monster. There was a teddy though whose glass eyes gleamed in the moonlight. _

"_There now," Britain said, as he lifted Alfred into his arms. "Do you see that there's nothing to be scared of? Why don't I spend the night with you? Would that make you feel better? I'll even leave the candle lit."_

"_You always fall asleep first though," Alfred mumbled sleepily into Britain's chest. "Then I have to stay awake all on my own . . . what if you fall asleep and a monster comes out and eats me? You'll be too asleep to save me!"_

"_Hush now. You're just scared because I dressed up as that monster and chased you around the house. I told you it was just a Halloween prank, silly billy!"_

"_So the monster won't get me?"_

"_Nope."_

"_And you'll stay awake and keep me safe?"_

"_Yep."_

_Alfred looked up at Britain sceptically. He always liked sharing a bed with Britain, just because the older man would give him cuddles and keep him warm, and if anything scary happened Britain would sing to him and make all the scary stuff go away. It was just really hard falling to sleep when you knew that your guardian would definitely be asleep first! Why couldn't Arthur wait to fall asleep?_

"_And we can have cookies and milk before we sleep?" Alfred asked. _

"_Why else would I bring the tray up?"_

"_Just for me!"_

"_Just for you."_

_The way Britain laughed made Alfred sleepily think of the angels. He was told that the angels always watched over you and kept you safe, and that they sounded pretty like bells and looked beautiful like old statues. He sometimes thought that Britain was an angel. Then he would see the older man sulk after speaking to France, or beat Spain up and steal his money, or even just get drunk and start babbling . . . maybe he wasn't an angel, but when he laughed and smiled like that Alfred thought that maybe he was something better than an angel. He was Britain. _

_Alfred felt himself dropped into bed as Britain grabbed a chair and pulled it up by the bedside. He would drop his feet onto the bed and put the tray onto his lap, so that they could share the treats without Alfred spilling any or knocking the tray over, and then together they would eat and drink and Mr Britain would tell stories. Then when it was all finished he would climb in beside Alfred and cuddle him until he fell asleep. _

"_I think today we'll have a real life story," Arthur said. _

_Well, this would definitely put Alfred to sleep. He _hated _historical stories . . . _

"_I know you hate historical stories," Arthur continued, as if reading his mind, "but one day you'll make your own history, then you'll be telling me your own stories and I'll be listening to you instead."_

"_Really?"_

"_Really. You're special America. You're the only thing I've ever been proud of."_

"_Really?"_

"_Really."_

"_Okay," Alfred said, as he gave a big yawn. "Then can you tell me the story of when you beat France even when he had you completely outnumbered, and the big, cool king stole the top part of his body?"_

_Arthur laughed. "Of course! Now then, let's see where to begin . . ."_

Where to begin . . .

Alfred held the teddy in his hands and smiled sadly.

It was hard to think that this had been scary to him, once upon a time. It was just a scruffy old teddy, one who had lost an eye at some point and whose stuffing was coming out of its badly sewn limbs, and yet Alfred could remember being convinced that this teddy was some sort of monster under his bed. Now it was nothing but an old keepsake, a relic of the past, hidden away in his bedroom in England's house.

Where did the time go? It felt like an eternity since he had been that child looking up to Britain with wide-eyes and awe, and it felt strange to now be forced into the role of adult when he still felt a little bit like a child. Okay, so it wasn't that he _felt _like a child, but just that – no matter how independent he was – he knew in his head that he could always depend upon England for support. England was the mature one, the responsible one, and the one who always made sure Alfred wasn't doing anything too crazy or that Russia wasn't getting a little too crazy.

It was just weird for Alfred to go from being the 'child' into the 'grown-up'. He liked being looked after, but now . . . what was he supposed to do? Britain was the one who always did the looking after! What was Alfred supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? He didn't want to patronise Britain or sound too assuming or to do something wrong and make things worse, but at the same time Britain _needed _him. Britain needed a hero! Alfred _was _that hero!

It was then that the lightning struck and Alfred jumped in fright.

He hated British weather! It was like it was always out to get him in some way, and if the damned rain wasn't out to get him then the damned wind always was! He could hear it howling, like the ghosts from the movies, and there was a scratching at his window as an old TV wire came loose and smacked against the pane. He wasn't too old to go sleep in Britain's bed, was he? He hoped it wouldn't be weird.

"M-Mattie? Are you awake, bro?"

Alfred walked across the bedroom to his brother's bed. He sometimes forgot that he shared a bedroom with his brother, so much so that he actually found himself sometimes wondering why there was a map of Canada over the spare bed or why the duvet set had a giant maple leaf on it, but at times like these he was more than glad to have his brother sharing the room with him! It was like having his own personal, breathing, living teddy bear to hug and cry into and feel better!

"C-come on, you're awake, right? Right? Dude, there's a super scary storm!"

"Al-"

Alfred pouted when the Canadian descended into mumbled nonsense. His brother seemed to be clutching his blanket to his face and was actually gnawing on a part of the seams, meanwhile the stupid polar-bear lay across his feet like a little foot-warmer. It was kind of cute, but so annoying! It wasn't fair that Matthew could sleep when Alfred couldn't! Why did Matthew have to look so peaceful? It was _way _too dark too. How could he sleep in the dark like this?

"Dude? Dude! _Dude!_"

"Ah! What -!"

Matthew shot up like a bolt. His maple sweatshirt hung off one of his shoulders and half of his face was red from where it had been smashed against his pillow, and he also had a little bit of drool down the side of his mouth. Alfred rolled his eyes and dropped the teddy in his arms onto Matthew and his bed-head. His brother looked a mess and he had only been sleeping for ten minutes! Maybe it was a Canadian thing?

The teddy landed with a soft thud onto Matthew's lap, which caused the Canadian to yell in shock and push it off onto the floor with a quick gesture of surprise. Alfred would have been annoyed, but the sound of lightning right outside his window made him jump in fear and drop to his knees beside Matthew, where at once the Canadian found a pair of strong arms wrapped around his neck and a grown man squealing into his shoulder. Alfred hung on tight as he hoped the worst would be over soon!

"M-maple! What are you -?"

"Bro! There's a super scary storm outside, plus I think I saw a ghost in France's room, only I totally think it _was _France, but then earlier I was walking downstairs and heard France talking to Britain, and Britain is like anorexic or something, so I'm too worried to sleep, but then it got all scary and –"

"I – I can't understand you! You're talking too fast, Alfred."

"Aw, man! Okay, listen up! The hero only speaks once!" Alfred moved back and gave a victory sign as he smirked at his brother. "I couldn't sleep as it was only like eleven o'clock and that's totally way too early! So I went downstairs to see Britain and he was talking to France, but France was all 'you have an eating disorder, bro! Rape laugh!' It was weird."

"Err, of course?"

Alfred knew that look. It was that look of 'this is way too early in the morning to deal with this', crossed with a little 'I have no idea what you're saying and frankly I think you've had too much sugar'. It was like Matthew was trying to work out in his head just what America was saying, like he had some sort of mental translation device in his brain, and yet he was taking way too long to wake up! It wasn't fair!

Matthew yawned loudly and reached out to take a look at his clock, but it seemed that he had forgotten that without his glasses he couldn't see a thing, so he began a desperate and fumbled attempt to find his glasses. It was kind of cute, like watching Kumajiro in the morning sleepily stumble about looking for food, or even like Britain before his morning coffee! Hell, mornings were the only time he ever drank coffee! Still, it was kind of annoying that Matthew was taking so long, because America wanted to talk _now_! Now was important!

It took a few minutes, but his brother eventually took a deep enough yawn and managed to find the time and his newfound eyesight, and when he did he gave Alfred a complete and irritated look of contempt and exasperation. His blond eyebrows were knotted into a grim line and his blue eyes were narrowed in frustration, but luckily his brother was the patient sort and a total wimp, so there was no way he'd ever get annoyed with America!

"Rape laugh?" Matthew asked.

"Yeah, you know, that one you were totally lucky not to inherit!"

"And he said that Britain had an eating disorder?"

"Yeah, turns out he has the problem, not me! You totally owe me an apology, Canadia!"

Alfred paused for a second and pouted again.

That was right, wasn't it? England had a problem. He wasn't eating and he was starving himself, and what for? He was already pretty attractive, plus he was such a powerful nation with some of the best allies, and he had an amazing history that made America rather jealous. He could remember England mocking him for having found a uniform from the civil war and getting excited, because England's response was 'well, I have a church from the eleven-hundreds, so what?'

What made a man so great resort to something so trivial?

"I'm worried, Bro," Alfred admitted. "Britain's like my hero or something, so to hear that he's starving himself because he's feeling all down and stuff is kind of sad. Don't you have like an app or something on your computer tablet? How do I fix this?"

"You _don't _fix this, America! If Britain really does have a problem then only he can fix it, and besides . . . you were the one criticising me for using the web! You really expect me to use it now? You can't just pick and choose whether something is 'useful' just based solely on what use you get out of it."

"Dude, that's totally the definition of 'useful'! Now go search it!"

"Maple hockey! I'm too tired! _You _do it!"

"Fine! I'll do what I want!"

Alfred huffed loudly and stormed across the room to the computer desk. Matthew always left his tablet lying on the table, mostly because he claimed it was important for meetings and work, but Alfred had seen him playing games online with Prussia and Russia when he was supposedly supposed to be working. In fact when he turned the machine off from stand-by the first thing that came up was a photo of Canada holding two types of maple leaf and the caption 'I told you that wasn't a Canadian maple'. Dude, took his duties too seriously.

"Okay, so if I search for ways to fix eating disorders then . . ."

"You need to . . ." Canada yawned and his voice trailed off into mumbling. It was lucky that Alfred was used to listening to Canadian and could just about understand what he was saying, which ended with: "I think it's on my favourites list."

"Found it! You rock, Mattie!"

It seemed like Matthew had saved a lot of sites about eating disorders when he had tried to confront Alfred earlier on, and a few of them were actually rather informative and interesting. There was one just for 'family and friends' with a list of potential problems that the sufferers felt, ways to approach them, and even ways to help them deal with their problems and overcome them. None of it seemed like a quick fix, which was a little frustrating. Alfred half-hoped that a hug and a 'dude, I totally love you, don't do this, please' would work fine.

Alfred cricked his neck and ran over to Canada's bed. He jumped on top of the sheets with a heavy thud, causing Matthew to groan loudly and throw himself back onto his side and curl up into the duvet, as he attempted to hide from his brother and dropped a not-so-subtle hint for him to go away. Alfred wasn't stupid, he knew that Canada was trying to hide, but for someone who was always invisible he sure sucked at hiding!

"Hey, this isn't hide-and-seek, bro!"

Alfred laughed loudly. Matthew just muttered some sort of curse words in French and pulled the covers up to his nose, which knocked his glasses askew and caused him to look kind of funny. Alfred turned the tablet to face Matthew so that he could _at least _see the screen, but the other man just yelled loudly and sat up with a rather violent movement. Matthew snatched his glasses from his face and rubbed at his eyes with clenched fists and a rather dark scowl.

"_Ah_! Alfred! The screen is too bright and it's pitch-black in here!"

"Oh! Sorry, dude! I'll put the lights on. Hey, you know I bought this totally retro device, you just clap and -! I'll show you! _Clap on, clap off –_"

"Damn it, Alfred!"

America laughed loudly and made a victory sign. He may have just completely blinded Matthew, but it was worth it! He only hoped that Britain never worked out that he had messed with the wiring and plug-sockets to install a device that he hadn't permission to use, but considering this was Alfred's room – _oh, and Canada's, of course_ – then he probably would never even find out. Still, Canada was practically fuming, and frankly he was starting to look a little scary . . .

Canada was hunched over in his bed with the duvet half-pooled about his waist, but with Alfred by his side and sitting on the sheets it was impossible to pull them back. His usually curly hair was all ruffled and crumpled, his askew glasses kind of magnified his eyes and made him seem a little bug-like, and he was clenching his fists in a way that he tended to do before a big rant was on its way. Alfred hated Canada's rants. The last one had made him cry, but that was only because Matthew had been so mean and not because Alfred was that upset or anything! Jeez, was Matthew angry at something? He was just too weird!

Alfred furrowed his brow in thought. What was his problem? Was he mad that Alfred wasn't sharing? Well, it _was _Matthew's tablet-computer, the background image of a polar bear kind of proved it, and he was willing to bet that if he accessed the email account it would filled with emails to Britain, France, and Russia. Well, that seemed like an easily problem to fix! Alfred dropped the tablet onto Matthew's lap and then gave a rather hopeful and happy smile.

Matthew took one look at Alfred then sagged with a loud sigh.

"You're such a child," Canada said with a sigh.

"What? You're mad that I'm not sharing, right? I'm sharing! See!"

"Fine," Matthew snapped, as he scrolled down the page. "Well, these list of symptoms could pretty much cover any of the nations. You know that, right? Are you _sure _that France said that England had a problem? I think we've proven earlier that diagnosing from a computer is a bad idea."

"Aw, man, I'm not stupid! I heard him telling France that he was always hungry, but that he had tricks to stop feeling hungry! That he thought eating a _cookie _was 'naughty' and like would make him fat or something. Oh! Then he was all 'I'm limiting my calories each day' and stuff. Hey, are like fat and calories the same thing? If you go on a diet which one would you limit?"

"I don't know, Alfred," Matthew moaned.

"Then – then he said that he felt fat," Alfred said sadly. "He admitted he's underweight, but he said he felt fat. Why would he say that? He hates himself and said that his weight was the only thing he has power over."

Alfred stared sadly at the screen with a rather empty smile. There was an image of a thin woman staring at a fat reflection, but whilst it seemed cliché at first Alfred had to wonder if that's what it felt like for Arthur. In a weird way he had never considered Arthur to be a man of feelings. He was always so cold and – what was the word that Japan always used? _Tsundere_? He never considered England to be the type to care what people thought, but he did and evidently it mattered to him.

It was hard not to blame himself a little. Alfred wondered at first if it was just because he was so awesome that he made England feel less awesome by comparison, but when he thought about it more that just didn't seem right. England never let other people make him feel bad! He fought France when he was too arrogant, he beat Spain up to prove a point, and he constantly told America off when he was being too bratty! If anything that was like him saying 'I'm better than you', but then . . . why would he _need_ to say that unless he felt _inferior_? It was all too confusing!

Alfred remembered teasing England when the other man felt hungry about what he would do in return for a chocolate bar, and how he had made a big deal about not getting any Valentine's chocolate only for England to catch him eating a load when he came by to give him some, and even how when he had made fun of England's cooking during a meeting the older man had thrown a fit. He hadn't really thought that he was sending Britain bad messages about food, but what if he had?

"Do you think it's my fault that he's sick?"

Matthew yawned and stretched his arms. "No, I think these things have to start from within a person. You might have said something, but even if you did you couldn't predict the way he'd take it. If it's something you said or did, then it's not because you said or did it, but because there's something inside of him making him take it in the wrong way. I think it's that voice inside him that makes him feel bad."

"You're pretty wise for a guy whose eyes won't focus," Alfred laughed. "Seriously though, what do I do? Like you totally came out and were like 'bro, you have a problem', but if I do that with Britain he'd just run away!"

"Yeah, he's never been good at expressing emotion."

Alfred skimmed over the article as Canada began mumbling something in French. The article talked about how people were afraid to ask for help, or how they felt they didn't deserve help, but that just didn't see like England at all! England was always so brave and assertive! Okay, so _maybe _Alfred couldn't remember a time ever where England asked for help – wars, recessions, internal acts of terrorism – but this was different right? Surely something like this he'd ask for help?

It was pretty hard to deal with. Alfred felt kind of powerless and helpless, but then he felt guilty because he knew that Britain was suffering and that he was probably feeling _way _worse than what Alfred did! Still, it was hard to understand. Alfred loved food, it tasted good and was a good way to fill time, and even when he went on a diet he couldn't stop eating just a little. Why would someone want to starve themselves just to shed a few pounds? Losing weight was important, but was it important enough to forgo strawberry shakes and hamburgers? It didn't make sense.

It was then that Alfred spotted something on the article and rolled his eyes.

"Dude, this says to be non-confrontational _and _to speak to the person alone!"

"So? I'll take Francis to go visit Italy, it'll give you time alone."

"That's not what I mean! You _totally _confronted me in front of Britain!"

"This is about England though, isn't it? Not you?"

"Yeah, I guess," Alfred said with a sulk.

It must have been difficult, Alfred thought, to be a nation with lousy cooking and an eating disorder, at least when you were surrounded by nations renowned world-wide for their culinary skills. Francis, China and Turkey _always _showed off. Italy seemed to enjoy cooking for everyone, even when it nearly cost him his own life after using all his water supply for pasta. Spain and Greece were pretty good cooks, too. It must have been like constant temptation! Alfred wondered how England would react if France brought home leftovers or new recipes from his visit to the happiest nation on Earth, because it couldn't be good, could it?

"I don't get this article," Alfred said stubbornly. "I'm not supposed to start a sentence with 'you'? Seems a bit vague, man."

"It means don't say things like 'you need to gain weight', anything like that sounds too judgemental and puts pressure on the person," Canada explained, as he snatched the tablet up and began to look through. "Here. Just don't tell him what to do, and whatever you do make sure you don't comment at all on how he looks, not even as a compliment. It'll make it worse."

"Huh? How would complimenting him make it worse?"

"If you say something bad about how he looks then he'll take it as he's not good enough," Canada explained. "You'll reinforce the belief that he needs to lose more weight. If you say he looks _good _then he might think starvation is working, it'll reinforce the idea that he's doing a good thing by not eating."

"So what am I supposed to say? There's nothing left!"

"Focus on how you feel and why you're worried about him," Matthew said with a sigh. "Tell him all the good things about him that aren't connected to his appearance, why you care, then why it's bad for his health. Don't try to change him. Do give him a list of potential ways to overcome this. Make sure he knows you love him unconditionally. Let me get some sleep. Okay, _bro_?"

"Okay, okay. Go to sleep, dude. You're so bitchy when you're tired!"

"Hmm."

Alfred rolled his eyes and climbed out of bed. His brother was already falling asleep, so – as brothers should – he removed Matthew's glasses and tucked him in for the night, and wondered if Britain was awake still instead. The storm was pretty scary and he didn't want to sleep alone. Then again he probably couldn't sleep in Britain's bed without more comments from Japan, France, Tony and . . . everyone, really. Why did they all think he and Arthur were a couple?

He blushed a little at the thought and walked across the room to turn off the lights, because – honestly – if he clapped right now then Matthew would probably throw Kumajiro at him or something. His brother was such a brat when he was sleepy or annoyed! Luckily the tablet was on full-charge so he could still see it in the dark, although he would need to charge it because the last thing he needed was a sleepy Canada throwing it at his head during the next meeting, all because it was too powered out to power on.

Alfred walked over to his bed and threw himself into it. It wasn't as comfortable as his bed at home, but he liked how Britain made his bed differently to America, plus he had even found a bedspread with a huge eagle on it! It made him feel pretty cool and safe to sleep in it, even if Canada would always roll his eyes and call America a child for liking things like that. Still, reading in bed was the best thing ever!

"Huh?"

Alfred screwed up his eyes and enlarged the font on the article. He had thought he had misread it, because if the problem was with England then there was little all that America could do about it, apart from talk to him honestly and openly, and apparently be careful how he phrased things. The article couldn't be right. He had to be misreading it in some way, because it was just . . . _odd_.

"Wait, there's a list of things that _I_ should do?"

_Examine your own attitudes about food._

Well, America's relationship with food was healthy, wasn't it? He ate all the time! Hamburgers, milkshakes, meatloaf, fries, and steak . . . it all tasted so good! What harm could it be for England to see someone eating loads and loads of foods? If anything it gave him the impression that eating more was totally normal! Especially when Alfred looked so . . . good . . . doing . . . oh, crap. Was that the message he was sending? That it was normal to eat a lot and not gain weight? Alfred knew that such a high metabolism wasn't normal, so maybe Arthur couldn't eat as much as him?

_Do whatever you can to promote good self-esteem._

Err, so that meant France's insults of 'black sheep of Europe' and 'former delinquent' were probably more put-downs than good-humoured jest? Come to think of it Alfred had told Arthur to 'drop dead' a lot, then mocked him a lot for his scones and for his marmite, and even called him an 'ugly droopy island over Europe'. He was so used to the nations insulting one another that he hadn't thought it could actually hurt the feelings of one of them.

_Remember that it's not your fault_.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't America's _fault_, but he had contributed to it, hadn't he? He had reinforced bad beliefs about food, he had mocked Britain mercilessly, and he had ignored so much of England's feelings, even when they were so blatantly obvious . . . he might not be to blame, but he played a part in it. They all had. So Alfred would have to make it all better. He would have to be the hero!

Alfred yawned and looked at the article one last time. A picture of a mirror broken into a dozen pieces, each one reflecting a different image of a person, stared up at him with an eerie sense of accuracy. It was the last image he saw before falling asleep. It was the first image he would remember on awakening.

_The broken mirror._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **This was originally intended to be the penultimate chapter, but I want to explore the issues at heart in a little more depth, so there will be a few more chapters. Please note though that I have a fortnight vacation coming up, so there _will _be a delay after this chapter with the updating schedule, sorry in advance!

**Chapter Four**

"Hey, Iggy, can we like . . . _talk_?"

England bit his lip and tried his best to smile.

_That bloody name _. . . if he remembered rightly it had been France who had first used it, what with Japanese culture having became oddly popular in his country as of late, but he hadn't expected it to bleeding catch on! He could deal with 'Igirisu', but _Iggy _-? He would kill France when he saw him. Did he honestly think that some sort of cutesy nickname _suited _Britain? Then again that was probably why he chose it. _Git_.

Arthur looked down at his embroidery and drew in a deep breath. It had been oddly relaxing to get lost in such a traditional art, but now that America was here he would have to put it down and engage in some over-the-top topic, one that would undoubtedly leave him with a migraine. He would be patient though. America had been oddly well-behaved lately, plus he acted as a wonderful ally against France whenever the prat became too much of a nuisance, and it _was _his responsibility to make sure that Alfred was okay. If America needed him, then so be it.

He placed the embroidery upon the table beside him and turned to look at America. It seemed that he was oddly rather serious today, and the way he looked at Arthur with that rather sad and pathetic expression made his heart melt . . . it was those puppy-dog eyes that always got Alfred what he wanted. The last time he used them, he somehow managed to trick the stoic Japan into throwing a Christmas party for all the nations. It was a riddle how someone so annoying could act so damned _cute_.

"Well, lad," Arthur said with a forced smile, "you know you can always turn to me. I'm not sure why you need to disturb my needlework though to do so, not when you could have spoken to me this morning at breakfast, but . . . no point bickering, eh? What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"What? Hey, Bro, I only woke up like an hour ago!"

"Nonsense! I made you and France a good, old, English fry-up! You left your black-pudding though," Arthur replied, with a hint of disappointment. "Don't worry, I put it in the fridge for you, just in case you fancied it later on."

"Dude! _What _black pudding? _I was asleep_! Like I'd _ever_ wake up at seven a.m.!"

"Well, then who -?"

England thought back a little to earlier in the morning. He was _sure _America and France had been at breakfast, because he had served them their meal for one thing, which that stupid cheese-eating surrender-monkey had refused to so much as even _look _at, claming just the stench of the grease made him sick. It had been odd, because Alfred usually ate everything in front of him, but today he just pushed things about his plate a bit, and was unusually quiet, and for that matter he was wearing a fur coat with a maple-leaf hooded-top underneath . . . _oh ._ . . _bugger._

"Bloody hell," England muttered. "That explains why you shouted 'I'm Canada'."

"No, that totally explains why _Canada _shouted 'I'm Canada'."

"S-same thing, blasted brat!"

Arthur pouted and threw the embroidery at Alfred's head. The American dodged it rather easily, even with both hands in his trouser pockets, and just gave England an awfully cold look from above the rims of his glasses. The blasted thing knocked over an old vase that England had left on the cabinet behind Alfred, and caused the contents to shatter all over the floor. He drew in a deep breath and tried to pretend that he didn't care. _He _was the one supposed to be angry, after all!

Alfred rolled his eyes and picked up some of the larger shards from the floor. It was strange to see him do something so selfless and so menial, because usually he seemed to hire people like Lithuania to do the cleaning or just leave it to someone else, but to see him actually pick up after _Britain _of all people . . . well, that was just a wee bit worrying. He had also dressed up, or – well – dressed up by _American _standards anyway. The jeans he wore were new and well fitting, and his white 'hero' T-shirt lacked any stains or tears, and over that he wore an open, grey hooded-sweater and an open black jacket. What did the lad want now?

"Why on earth would Matthew go out with France for?" Arthur asked. "If I were Matthew I would rather spend time with my friends, like Russia or Prussia. How is Gilbert doing anyway? I hope he's playing nice with our young Matthew. I do worry that France and Spain are a bad influence on that man, I only hope he doesn't act with Matthew like he does with _them_."

"Oh, come on! Do you even _know _Matthew? Like you've met him, right?"

"Why would you ask that for?"

"Like, how often has Mattie even _met _Gilbert? I think they've only ever seen each other in meetings, or spoke on Prussia's blog."

It was only a passing comment; a fleeting comment, but something about it struck Arthur very hard. Arthur would admit to being rather sensitive as of late, that his temper came and went in quick flashes, but the realisation that he had forgotten Canada again – that he didn't even _know _basic things about him – hurt him greatly. He had been a little . . . _preoccupied_ . . . as of late, but Canada was something of a little brother to him, and a very good friend. It made him feel as if he had failed Matthew.

"Man," Alfred said with a sad smile, "France was totally right! Unless it's like anything about you or me then you're totally useless! I think being an island nation has fried your brain, it's cut you off from the rest of the world."

"S-shut up! You can't talk about being cut off from the world!"

"Least the world _remembers_ me!"

Arthur clenched his hands tight and stood up quickly. No other nation – aside from France – could make him lose control this way, and no other nation could possibly be so unintentionally cruel and oblivious to the atmosphere. It was sometimes as if Alfred honed in on Arthur's weaknesses, that he zoomed in with total accuracy, then exploited them and used them just to get a violent reaction. Did he even know how much he hurt Arthur? Did he even care?

It was times like this that Arthur found hard to deal with. It always ended with him walking away or supposedly 'sulking', but it seemed that no one _understood_. It was difficult to feel the odd one out, worse to always be reminded of it, but to then constantly receive a barrage of confusing insults from the one person whose opinion he cared about most . . . the one person he had ever lost on the battlefield to, the one person that he had ever raised and loved . . . it was the greatest rejection of all. Yes, the world remembered Alfred. No, no one remembered Arthur. He should be happy, shouldn't he? He should be happy that Alfred had outdone him, but . . .

"Enough!"

Arthur blushed a little in embarrassment. He couldn't lose face when face was all he had, and so he walked elegantly across the room to clean up the mess that he had made, even though Alfred had already picked up the largest of the shards. It was only when he reached down that he found Alfred's shadow was cast over him. He was in Alfred's shadow. _He was in Alfred's shadow_. How had it ended up this way? When had he become nothing but an old man?

"You wanted to talk to me?" Arthur asked.

"Oh yeah . . ."

The American bent down and helped the Briton with the mess, but the one thing he picked up – out of everything – was the embroidery. The embroidery hoop framed a developing image of some lily flowers, each one in full bloom and bright in colour, and for some reason America was looking at it with an expression of odd nostalgia. It was peculiar to see. It was odd to see the other man so peaceful and filled with memories of the past, but it had probably been a very long time since Alfred had seen any of Arthur's creations. There had been a point long ago where Arthur had enjoyed working with his hands, but recently . . . not so much.

"Dude, this is pretty good, you know?"

"Oh, that?" Arthur stood up with a great laugh. "That's just some old piece I found in the attic! I thought I'd take it out and finish it off. It's nothing; just forget you ever saw it. I have some better ones lurking somewhere I can show you."

"Huh? But this looks brand new! Plus there's a photo by your chair that –"

"It's nothing!"

Arthur blushed and snatched it from Alfred rather violently. Honestly, that brat still hadn't learned any darned manners! If he could blooming just keep his hands to himself and not make ridiculous comments . . . _it was an awful piece of embroidery anyway_. The only person who really ever sat with him when he embroidered tended to be Francis, and that was only because he liked to mess with him. He certainly wasn't going to show Alfred his work!

Alfred looked like he wanted to say something, and usually he _would_, but the fact that he just stood there with his lips pursed and his hands clenched was extremely suspicious. It was as if he were _holding back_ of all things! Well, Arthur wasn't weak and fragile! He didn't need to be protected, and he _also _didn't need someone patronising him by saying that his work was good when it most certainly was not! It was insulting to say the least! To hell with it, Arthur was once the pirate of the seas and the greatest empire on Earth, he wouldn't let something like this get to him; he had control of himself and his emotions. If he could keep his weight down with the temptations of France's food all around him, then he could _certainly _resist fighting with Alfred.

"You know," Alfred said, as Arthur threw himself back onto the sofa, "I used to think you were just high-strung and trying to be like a gentleman or something, but your moods are _really _erratic, it's pretty crazy."

"You're here to talk about my moods? Of all the things -!"

"I'm worried, Artie! I thought things were better between us lately! You were the first one to follow me on Twitter, and you always cook me nice food, and you were like the _only _one to back me up in like any war that ever happened in the last sixty years! I mean you were so awesome . . . now I find out you've been _lying _to me? Dude, that's not cool! Aw, man, I'm doing this all wrong . . . Er, can we start again?"

"Start again with _what?_ What are you bloody blathering on about?"

"I'm supposed to approach you in a – er, what was it?" Alfred dropped the last few shards onto the cabinet and then threw himself on the sofa next to Arthur. "That's it! In a 'non-confrontational' manner!"

"_Pardon_?"

Arthur was confused. It was one thing for America to be serious, but for him to be serious enough to memorise words outside of his usual vocabulary . . . a little something about black ships sprang immediately to mind. The only consolation to Arthur was that this _couldn't _be an official meeting between two nations, simply because of the lack of either one of their bosses and the lack of a professional setting. He had never seen Alfred get this way about a personal matter before. It was awfully concerning.

The sofa dipped where Alfred had thrown himself down, which caused Arthur to jolt a little and roll his eyes, thankful that he hadn't been sipping his tea when this giant of a man treated the furniture like his personal climbing-frame. The damned Yank had even kicked off his trainers – what did he call them? _Sneakers_? – and put his bare feet upon Britain's glass coffee-table. He half-hoped the glass would break. Now _that _would teach America about disgusting habits and proper sitting etiquette, although considering Britain's instinctual need to protect Alfred, such a thing would probably hurt _him _more than it would America. He ignored the action for now and made a mental note to disinfect the table later on.

"I'm worried about your diet, dude," Alfred said gently.

Arthur immediately froze. It felt as if cold ice water had been poured slowly over his skin, and the sensation was less than pleasant . . . it didn't waken him, it didn't make him any more alert, it simply made him feel a sensation of dread. The sudden shock of someone – other than _Francis_, of course – realising that there was something wrong with his diet . . . it was rather worrying. He had hid it so well, hadn't he? How the bloody hell had America even noticed anything?

"I mean," Alfred continued, "I thought we could talk about it, you know?"

"T-there's nothing to talk about, you prat!"

"Don't be that way, Artie!"

_Don't be that way . . . _

Arthur clenched his fists and tried to collect himself. Very well, so now _Alfred_ was giving him tips on composure? _Alfred_? It felt like a cosmic joke of sorts. It didn't feel right to be told what to do by someone who never had to obey any rules, who – in fact – _made up his own rules_, and never faced any sort of consequences. Alfred couldn't even begin to comprehend the pressures on Arthur or how much self-control he had proudly exerted in taking control of his diet! He didn't know just how much Arthur had achieved, how close he was to being like his old self, and now – _now _– he was telling him to 'not be that way'? He did _not _need America attacking him like this!

"H-how dare you!" Arthur snapped. "You wanker! _You absolute wanker_! That is the _rudest _thing I have ever heard! I can't believe you would -! I _defended_ you when Canada accused you of an eating disorder that you didn't have, and now you repay me by accusing me of the exact same bloody thing? What is that insult of yours again? Oh yes . . . _you freaking douche_!"

"Hey, that's harsh! I'm just looking out for you!"

"By criticising my diet, something of which you know _nothing _about?"

"I'm worried, Arthur!" Alfred drew in a deep breath and glared at the raging Briton. "I'm trying not to get angry here, but you're really making it hard! I heard everything that France said to you; so don't try to deny that you have a problem! I don't know, maybe I should be mad at myself for not seeing the signs, but now I _know _you're mega upset I can put things right! I'm the hero after all!"

"Y-you can't just _fix _this!"

_There's nothing to be fixed_ . . .

Arthur wasn't broken. He was strong. He had taken a weakness and turned it into a strength, and by doing so he was fixing the problem himself. He didn't need to rely on others, because those around him just didn't understand what it was that he felt, and even if they did – even if they cared – they would just try to sabotage him as they always did. If it wasn't Francis cutting off the hair that he had tried to grow, then it was Germany slamming a door in his face. If it wasn't America running away from him and refusing his friendship, then it was Italy crying in terror because Britain had served him a meal that had taken him all day to cook . . .

He was just putting right what had always been wrong. The problem had always been him. It had _always _been him! If he simply lost some weight, just a few more pounds – _just a few more pounds _– then the other nations would respect him again, they wouldn't feel the need to mock him or bully him, they would realise that he _had _some self-control after all, more than America at the very least! He remembered when he had once been the envy of the world, but now -?

He had always thought that he couldn't be fixed, but he _could . . . he could_ . . . _maybe_ it wasn't his hair, his clothing choices, or his body language . . . _maybe_ it was just his weight. If he could just take some control, if he could just lose a few more pounds . . . just a few more . . . what did America know anyway? He needed this. He needed some sort of release. What did America know?

"So," Alfred asked, "why do you look so sad?"

"Piss off, Alfred."

"Hey, remember that time we fell in the lake?" Alfred smiled weakly and stared off into the far corner of the room. "Dude, that was so totally awesome! It was like something off a horror movie! I never realised that Seychelles was so strong!"

"You idiot, we nearly _drowned_."

America laughed loudly. "Yeah, but you know _why _we nearly drowned?"

"Because 'the hero' was actually an idiot?"

Arthur winced as America punched him in the arm with a laugh. If any other nation had playfully punched him then he might have just shrugged it off, but from America – who didn't know his own strength at the best of times – it felt like an instant bruise forming underneath the skin. He would seriously have to have words with the boy about considering the feelings of other people. It wouldn't have been so bloody bad, but lately he found himself bruising like a peach.

"Nah, my idea was awesome!" Alfred said with a punch to the air. "I mean, France was all 'hey, let England be the hero for once', so I did! You were the hero for the day and I was the totally awesome one for letting you be the hero! Only I forgot that you couldn't swim, then I hurt my leg, and then we both kind of started to drown . . . but other than that small point, it was foolproof!"

"Other than the small point that we nearly died? Yes, foolproof."

"I think you were the whole reason I wanted to _be _a hero."

"Would you stop with this hero malarkey, I mean – wait?" Arthur did a double take and shook his head in surprise. "What?"

"You were the reason I wanted to be a hero."

The way America said those words was so innocent that it almost sounded sincere. He even had the same faraway expression that he often did when daydreaming, almost as if he were seeing something that England wasn't privy to. It usually didn't end well, because it usually meant – after something rather sweet and friendly had been said – that some sort of caustic or sarcastic comment was on its way, which usually led to bickering and arguments.

Arthur sighed and looked to the clock in an almost casual manner. If he remembered right then Matthew had taken Francis to see Feliciano and Ludwig, which would be followed with some films in the city centre and a meal somewhere afterwards . . . he hadn't thought much of it at the time. Canada truly respected France and seemed to relish in having some sort of tie to his French heritage, but now that America was having trips along memory lane it all felt rather like a set-up, as if they were trying to get out of the way so that America could have this 'talk' with him. It meant that he couldn't expect anyone to come home anytime soon and save him.

"Hey, don't look that way, Artie!" Alfred said with a pout. "It's just . . . when I was a kid you were so great, like the one guy who would look out for me and look after me, I could really respect you, you know that right? Then I got older and you were a total drag! It was like you just wanted me to always be your obedient little brother, and I got fed up of that. I didn't _want _to be your little brother. I wanted to be your _equal_."

"We're not equals, Alfred. I don't think _anyone _is your equal."

"Dude, who do you think inspired me to be so strong? You did! You were the strongest nation on Earth, you had this big empire and all this respect, and I wanted to be just like you! Then when I got my independence it was like 'nah man, I want to do better than _that_', I wanted to prove my independence was _worth _something! If I were just like your equal then what would be the point of it all? I hurt you. I _know _I hurt you, and that hurt me too, Bro. I wanted to show you it was all for something."

Arthur winced a little at the memory. It was a rather sad and pathetic time for him, least of all because he had lost the most important thing in his life, but it had also been his one and only loss out of centuries of complete victories. He had never lost a single war – _ever _– and yet America had brought him to his knees! He still could have won, he still could have destroyed America, but . . . he hadn't been able to shake the image of that man as being his 'baby brother'. Now he was forced to recognise the truth: America had never been his baby brother. America had always been his own person. England had never seen it, but it was there. It had _always _been there.

"Alfred, I would rather not talk about –"

"Even after the war you still looked out for me," Alfred continued. "You always backed me up, and even when you teased me you still never said half the bad things anyone else said. Plus we could _totally _team up against France together! I don't know, dude, it was like you were my role model before, but now you're my hero, like I don't want to _be _you anymore, I just respect you for being you.

"Er, this is kind of awkward, isn't it?" Alfred laughed and scratched his neck a little nervously. "I guess it just really hurts me to see you hurt, dude! I hate it! I'm so used to you backing me up that I don't know what to do! Yeah, I saved your ass _loads _of times, and if it weren't for me you'd _so _be speaking German right now, but that isn't like all that soppy emotional stuff, right? This'd be so much easier with Italy! That guy's much easier to talk this stuff with. Er, so, well, I feel bad because you've been my hero for so long, so – just once – I want to be _your _hero . . . that way you can get back to being my hero. I want my hero back."

Arthur hadn't expected that at all.

It was not often that America ever felt the need to confess his emotions in such a manner, even less often where he would do so with even a hint of seriousness, but Arthur knew – without knowing _how _– that Alfred meant every word that he was saying. It made him wonder what had brought such a mood upon his old charge. There was a twinge of guilt that he had somehow made Alfred feel that he _had _to look out for Arthur, but he knew that he had done nothing wrong . . .

Still . . . he was America's hero? He would never have assumed such a thing from the way that Alfred acted, but it did fill him with a nice sense of nostalgia. It reminded him of the days when he could still talk to Alfred openly and warmly, of when Alfred would turn to him and trust him, of when they weren't just antagonistic friends, but something rather more than that. It made him nostalgic for the days when he had that little boy at his feet that would always look up to him, who always listened to him, who never _judged _him . . . but he wondered if he hadn't so much been in love with the idea of a 'little brother', more that he had been in love with the idea of a sense of belonging and purpose. America had given him purpose. He had also taken it away.

Arthur looked at Alfred and saw that he was actually watching Arthur rather intently, almost like a child who had opened his arms to his parent and half-expected a hug in return, but Arthur just couldn't find it within himself to return the emotional vulnerability with an emotional response of his own. He was too used to these things always being a joke on his part. If he opened up emotionally, there was always the risk that somehow it would be used against him.

"So, can we talk?" Alfred asked.

Arthur crossed his arms and legs with a sigh. "I suppose we can, lad."

"Great! So how long have you like been all anorexic and stuff?"

Arthur clenched his hands tightly on his arms and tried his best to stay calm. Oh, trust that bloody moron to totally smash the moment to pieces and come out with something so curt and crude! It was also a complete lie. It made it seem as if Arthur were sick or had some sort of mental disorder, when in actual fact he was simply coping in the best way he knew how, and he was also losing a few pounds whilst he was at it, _something that America could stand to do too_. It was just like America to so bluntly state something that wasn't true!

"Do I look like a teenage girl trying to lose weight for her prom, you git?"

"Hey, I spent all night looking this up, dude! I even borrowed some psychology books from the library . . . er, I totally borrowed your card, so you have to return them for me in four weeks time! Oh, and your libraries close so early, dude, that totally sucks, I had to like send Mattie out to –"

"Would you bloody well get to the point?"

"Well, it's not just teenage girls, bro! That's such a stereotype! I just . . . well . . . how would you feel if it were me? Like I know I eat a lot, plus I do have a little bit of weight to my stomach, but I don't _feel _fat, but what if I did? If I stopped eating and got all weak and then had mood swings, then you realised that people _die _from not eating and starving and stuff –"

"And I never realised _before _that starvation equals death?"

"Are you being sarcastic again? You're so unfair! You're so mean!"

It was hard not to smile as Alfred leant forward with his hands clenched in front of him like a child, and – when he scrunched his eyes shut and began ranting out a list of reasons about why England 'sucked' – Arthur had to turn his head to the left slightly to hide his smirk. It had been easy to antagonise Alfred since childhood, but to see a nearly grown adult have a temper tantrum was just outright amusing and adorable, and it made Arthur feel a little better about the whole thing. Right now the attention wasn't on him, it was simply on two friends bickering as if nothing were wrong. He preferred this by far to the serious discussion at hand.

"Yo, you know if it were me you'd be freaking out," Alfred said forcefully. "You'd be yelling at me and making me see a therapist and telling me to go eat a burger or something, then you'd be all stuttering and spluttering and tell me that just because you were sorry that you called me fat doesn't mean that I'm any less annoying, and then you'd probably tell me not to pig out whilst giving me food or something."

"So you're going to yell at me and throw food at me?"

"Dude! Will you just talk to me? I'm worried, like _really _worried. I don't – I don't want to see you die! I spoke to Matthew this morning, there's like _photos _of French models that were nothing but bone and then _died . . . _the ones who lived like can't have children or had arthritis and stuff. It's not healthy!"

Arthur stood up slowly and looked at Alfred coldly. He couldn't begin to express the anger that he felt, simply because he hadn't felt this way before, or – at least – for a very long time. It wasn't even the usual sort of anger . . . it was something else. It was the feeling that his privacy had been invaded, it was the frustration that someone would ignore his feelings and disrespect the fact he _needed _this, and it was the sense of helplessness . . . the fear this could be taken away from him . . .

It would be best to ignore this whole conversation. Alfred had a short attention span at the best of times, so with a little luck he would move onto something else soon enough, whether that was the fact Cuba was annoying or that Spain was playing practical jokes on him or that the world was picking on him for the latest recession. He would funnel his feelings into something that contained more self-interest, and he would forget this whole little debacle. Arthur could get on with his dieting then in peace. Until then America could – and _would _– just have to bloody shut up about it!

"You want me to tell you why I do it? How long?" Arthur said coldly. "You want me to open up to you and let you help me make things better? _I do not have a problem_. If I did – and that's a big _if_ – then I wouldn't talk to you about it anyway."

"Then who would you talk to?"

_That was a point. Who would he talk to?_

Arthur blushed a little. This was beginning to get rather humiliating and he felt more than a little self-conscious, because – truth be told – there wasn't _anyone _he could talk to . . . he didn't have anyone that he could trust, anyone that he could open up to, and in all honesty the only person he would want to talk to would be Alfred. It was just that he didn't _want _to talk to Alfred, because it would just be too awkward. He could probably talk to France, but that wouldn't resolve anything, in fact he would just feel shamed and weak afterwards, knowing that France would now _know _his emotions and yet would be helpless to help him. Only America could help, but he didn't _want _help!

"I am not talking about this, Alfred!" Arthur snapped. "I have to go and make dinner."

"Dude, Francis and Matthew aren't even –"

"I don't care if they won't be here to eat it! _You're_ here and _you _need to eat," Arthur said, albeit he had to bite his tongue at the hypocrisy of it. "I'll cook you one of your favourites. No hard feelings, eh? It'll be done in an hour or two."

"Artie, I -!"

The Briton was already out of the door.

Alfred sank down into his seat and wondered what he would do next. He couldn't force England to open up, but he needed to put things right, he needed England to feel better and to be healthy. It hurt him to see his old friend hurting. He wondered who he could turn to for help, if any of the other nations would be able to understand and if England would feel safe talking to them, but he didn't want to reveal England's secrets to anyone else without the older nation's permission first.

They would have to talk eventually. He would have to make England open up and admit that he had a problem, then together they could create some sort of food diary or diet plan or even just get him some professional help, but how could they work on fixing things if they couldn't even admit to there being a problem? Alfred just wanted to be the hero! He just wanted to make things right! It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Arthur was sick or that he didn't care that America was hurting because of it or that he didn't even _realise _just how much he meant to the younger nation. Alfred just wanted him to be okay, was that too much to ask? If only England could see himself how America saw him. If only he could see the truth.

"I'm worried," Alfred said to himself.

He pulled out his cell-phone and looked at the screen. There were one or two messages from Matthew asking how things were going, but the truth was things had gone badly, and how could he tell Matthew that? How could he worry his brother just as much as he was worried? What would the hero do at a time like this? How would someone like Germany or Japan deal with this?

"Maybe I should talk to France . . ."

_That wouldn't be a bad idea, would it?_

Alfred was sure it would work.

It had to.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **_Huge_ thank you to 'RoseMarie' and to 'Mimi K' for their reviews :)

**To Rose:** I think, as a writer, that some chapters write themselves and others require more time and thought. In a strange way the chapters that write themselves are more worrisome, because it feels like losing control as an author and giving all that power to the muse. I tend to write with a plan in mind, so when things deviate I worry if they work. In this chapter there are three scenes not in my plan that just . . . wrote themselves. _Arthur_ wrote himself. I guess – in an inexplicable way – I doubt myself, because it doesn't feel like myself writing. I know that may seem crazy, but that's just why the chapters I hate tend to be the ones people prefer XD

**Important A/N: **There will be an approximately two-three week hiatus from this point, due to the fact that I will not have access to a computer on my vacation. I'll update immediately on regaining computer access.

**Chapter Five**

"It seems that Mr America is in quite the excitable mood."

"Hmm? Oh, yes, rather."

Arthur leaned back against the wall with a drink in hand. He had been nursing it for some time now, caught between a need to get lost in a drunken haze and a need to keep his calorie content low. He hated these social events. If he weren't made to feel completely inadequate then he was simply left standing on the sidelines, and today it seemed was to be absolutely no exception to the rule. The only thing stopping him from drinking himself into an early grave was Japan . . .

Kiku had dressed quite nicely in traditional Japanese wear, so much so that Arthur felt a little under-dressed by comparison, unable to compete with the elegance and cultural clothing of his closest friend. The much older man had also found time to attend the party in the midst of his busy schedule, although Arthur suspected an 'invitation' that was more an act of duress than it was actually inviting, and he had even made a large effort to be social, which – by Japan's standards – meant a prefatory greetings and an exchange of business cards. Japan must have been nervous. He even made the same greeting and exchange with Germany and England, and he had been friends with them since what felt like the dawn of time.

It _could _have been quite an elegant affair, but it seemed that America didn't care much for etiquette and elegance. The American had an array of waiters walking about amidst the crowd of people, which included almost every nation involved in the recent meetings in London . . . with the exception of Russia. America himself had taken to being 'the host' instead of the 'hero' and could be seen grabbing nations for huge embraces and heard laughing loudly from a distance.

"You do not seem very pleased to be here, Mr Britain," Japan said, the sincerity in his voice quite evident. "Is it that there is something here displeasing to you? I can understand why such festivities may be . . . overwhelming."

"I just find this all awfully droll," Britain admitted, albeit with a hint of bitterness. "Why the bloody hell was I even invited? If America wanted to throw some stupid after-party for the American embassy then _fine_, but I don't see why he has to use my bleeding house to do it! This is Europe! I don't have the space for these kinds of events! I can barely move!"

"Yes, it is a little claustrophobic. I have noticed that your houses are very much like mine in terms of space. It would be most convenient for you if you were to host such parties at a public location, such small residential properties do not make for good social events. I have had to make pleasantries with China twice already."

"Well, it could be worse, old chap. You can't avoid anyone in here! Russia wasn't even invited and yet I've seen him three times already . . . how is that possible?"

"Indeed, I can think of no worse a fate."

"Well, I can think of _one_ . . ."

England looked across the room to America. The blond seemed to be having the time of his life, lost in his own little social circle in the far corner of the living room. Prussia and South Korea were battling over some karaoke video game, whilst Denmark had his arm around America and was showing him some sort of video on his mobile phone. The four loudest nations were attracting attention from other rather loud nations, making the party obnoxious to say the least.

It was frustrating. England couldn't escape the party considering it was in his own home, nor could he ignore the host when the host was America himself, and so he was forced to participate in what could only be called a form of 'social torture'. There was a sort of pleasure in knowing the attention wasn't on him, but he still felt rather neglected. It was difficult to see everyone forming little cliques, how they would bicker or laugh or cry or smile, because he knew that he wasn't really a part of any of it. He wondered what it would take to become involved, if it would be a price too much for him to pay. It made him doubt his worth.

"You are frowning again, Mr Britain."

England jumped a little and cast a nervous gaze to Japan. He hadn't realised he had been wearing his heart on his sleeve again, usually he always remembered his stiff-upper lip and to act as becoming a gentleman, but when he looked at Alfred and saw a man – brimming with life and love – centre of attention, he couldn't help but wonder _why_. _Why _did America have all eyes upon him? What did he have that England didn't? How . . . how could England be liked too?

"Aha! You're just imagining things!"

"I am?"

"Yes, yes!" Arthur gave a very loud and awkward laugh. He patted Japan firmly on his back and nervously looked away, as he tried to hide his emotions. "I'm just a little anti-social, that's all. And – _what the bloody hell is that tosser doing?_"

Alfred had taken a bread roll from the buffet table and had decided to kick it around like a football, and – although he was thankfully keeping it off the floor – it seemed damned disrespectful considering Arthur had taken a lot of time to help make the buffet! The blond didn't even seem to notice as he kicked the roll around like it meant nothing, all the while laughing at whatever Denmark was showing him. England had frankly had enough.

England downed his drink and slammed the glass down onto a side-table. He was sure that he heard a rather low sigh from Japan, but – as usual – the older man had the maturity to know when it was best not to get involved with another's oncoming argument. The Japanese man merely looked awkwardly away and made to find another friend to converse with instead, and Arthur couldn't say that he wouldn't have done the same. Arguments with Alfred tended to be loud and vocal, almost as much as arguments with France would involve insults and violence, so no one – not even Arthur – wanted to be around for _that_. It was a necessary evil though.

"Dude! You know what's funny? Like apparently in English there's like _loads _of words for a bread roll. Denmark did a search, there's _batch, bap, cob _– hey -! _Hey_! Not cool, bro! I was using that! No fair!"

Arthur snatched the bread roll – now rather black and dirty – from midair. Alfred seemed to think kneeing his makeshift ball was a rather good way of showing off, when in actual fact he was doing nothing but making a fool of himself. It was actually a little conflicting, if Arthur were to be honest, because as worthless as the roll was to him – filled with unnecessary fat and calories – it was still something that he had made and something he had accomplished. He _liked _cooking.

"Oh, shut it!" Arthur snapped. "I made these from scratch, I'll have you know! Not that I expect an oaf like you to appreciate that! Whilst we're on the subject of things you _don't _know, you should know that English is a shared language, so whilst _I _may occasionally call this a 'batch' I am _not _speaking a different language!"

"Whatever, man. You may as well speak a different language. You don't even _sound _like you're speaking English, you sound French sometimes the way you stretch out your sounds and –"

"_How dare you!_ I ought to –"

Arthur stopped as he heard Prussia suddenly burst out into laughter. It was perhaps the one downside to a public argument, but for some reason it felt a little more hurtful than usual. It may have just been because it served as another reminder of how distant America and England had become, what with Prussia – and _France_ of all people – having helped the younger state during the war, or it may have just been that Arthur had been sensitive as of late to people laughing _at _him. Whatever the reason the laughter cut into him like a knife.

"Haha!" Prussia laughed, as he forcefully played some sort of plastic guitar rigged to the video-console. "That was so awesome! He totally told you, he – _oomph_!"

"You can shut it, too!"

Arthur shoved the roll into Prussia's mouth. The white-haired man spat it out at once and dropped his guitar instantly, it seemed that he needed his hands free to brush his tongue over and over, as he tried in futile to get the taste out of his mouth. His face went deathly pale, and he seemed to be muttering something in German, although the only words England caught were 'not awesome' and 'English cooking', but – quite frankly – the damned brat had deserved it.

"Err, bro?" America said worriedly. "That bun was filthy . . ."

"Yeah, not cool!" Prussia spat. "Totally not awesome!"

"I don't bloody care," England replied.

There was suddenly something a little dark about America's expression. He had been so absorbed by Denmark's phone and Prussia's karaoke debut, almost as wrapped up in the company as by his fascination with technology, but now his eyes were rather narrowed and focussed upon England. Those glasses of his didn't hide a thing. It was hard to determine what Alfred felt, but Arthur knew one thing . . . this felt like a standoff. Alfred was waiting for Arthur to do something. Arthur was waiting for Alfred to say something. It was just a matter of which one would act first.

The next few seconds seemed to be treacherously long, with both men just glaring at each other as they garnered a few extra onlookers. Great, the very last thing England wanted was a crowd . . . no doubt they would side with America over him, no doubt he would become the villain, and even if he weren't to become the villain they would still mock him. He didn't want all eyes on him. He didn't want them looking at him and judging him, because the judgement was worse than the stares. It was worse when the main gaze – the main pair of eyes – was _Alfred's_. He couldn't bear it. It felt like the one person he cared most about had turned on him, and – not only that – but even the crowd was turning on England for it. He hated it.

"Forget it," England snapped. "I'm going to the kitchen to help France."

"Bro, France said he's got it," Alfred said, a little too gently. "The _last _party I had everyone brought gifts, he brought the _worst _party favours ever, like _seriously_. I think even Korea had been embarrassed! He said he'd help cater to make it up, but I don't know, dude, he didn't even make _hamburgers_. It's like I'm being punished instead of him making it up to me!"

"W-well, what if I make you a hamburger . . .?"

"Seriously? That'd be epic! Yeah, you should totally do that, although . . ." Alfred suddenly frowned and looked sadly at the floor. "If you go then that means I'd be here all on my own, and that'd totally be the end of _Amerisu_."

"Well you can't come with me, you're the host and – wait, what? What the bloody hell is 'Amerisu'?"

"Like 'America' and 'Igirisu' combined! Cool, huh? Japan came up with it!"

Arthur gave him a very, _very _cold stare.

He wasn't sure if he were being mocked, or if Alfred were just being his usual hyperactive self, but _honestly_ -! It was such a ridiculous portmanteau and an unnecessary one at that. It was typical of Japan to come up with cute and adorable nicknames for things, but for America to adopt it as some sort of new 'team' name, as if England would forever be destined to play a sidekick to the new 'dynamic duo' of America and England in their political special relationship . . . he used to be so much more. Is that all America saw him as now? Good grief! He was _not _going to stand here and take ridicule from some brat!

"I'm going."

"N-no! Wait! I'm sorry! Hey England, wait up! _Wait up_!"

Arthur stormed his way through the crowd and into the kitchen. The doors had been kept closed to maintain a sense of mystery about the makings of the party, so that none of the guests need know about what happened 'behind the scenes', which was probably for the best. Italy had been cooking alongside France and Britain earlier in the day, which meant that the kitchen was – for all intents and purposes – a bombsite . . . there was flour _everywhere_, even in places that shouldn't even exist.

It was hard not to wonder who would be left to clean up this mess. If Alfred had the nerve to volunteer Arthur's home, then surely Alfred would have the decency to clean up after his own mess. Still, as Arthur navigated around various pots and pans left – for some reason – upon the ground, he found his frustration growing somewhat . . . he felt tired, hungry too, and it was all getting to be a little too much. The need to just lie down and fall asleep was overwhelming, because the tiredness was bone-deep. His joints ached, his head felt rather full, and it felt as if he were asleep on his feet. It was hard not to be angry when you could barely stand.

How was it that Alfred always had so much energy? Even Francis looked as if he had energy to spare! The damned poof was wearing an open blue shirt, with his hair pulled back into a ponytail, and over that he wore a chef's hat and a white apron. He appeared to be prancing and dancing about, moving from bowl to bowl and pan to pan, and he moved with such expertise it almost made Arthur jealous. He was humming some sort of French song to himself, and when he turned around he blew Arthur such a kiss that it made the Englishman tense and bristle.

"_Quelle merveille! Vous êtes ici pour aider?"_

"Do I _look _like I'm here to help?" Arthur snapped. "And bloody speak English!"

"Dude, you're not going to cook?" Alfred said sadly.

Arthur sighed.

There was a smirk on France's lips that he bloody well wanted to wipe off! The blond was staring him down, because he knew – and _Arthur _knew – that Arthur just wouldn't be able to say no to America. It wasn't that he _minded _doing things for Alfred, because it was rather nice to go back to feeling the way that he did back when his charge was still a child, but there was just something about _Francis _seeing him doting on America that irked him. Why did Francis have to be here anyway?

"Fine," Arthur said coldly. "I'll make you a god-damn burger!"

"Thanks, dude!"

Arthur went to immediately to the fridge to fetch the hamburger meat. The fridge was filled to the brim with all sorts of ingredients and ready-made meals, most of which were purchased by Francis or Matthew, and when he looked inside he felt a little overwhelmed. There was hardly anything in there that was his. Yes, there were certain little things in there that England liked, but they were all brought _for_ him . . . not by him . . . a small part of him wondered if that were an odd thing.

He gave a loud sigh and slammed the door closed. He remembered a long time ago how strange it had once been, when he would hungrily open the fridge and see – despite rows upon rows of food – absolutely _nothing _suitable to eat, and how frustrated he would feel walking away empty-handed. It had been a struggle at first, but now he felt a sense of accomplishment. Now he had the self-control to look at the food and not even _crave _it, because he knew – without even thinking – just what that those calories and fat would do to him. It was difficult to express in words, but the temptation . . . the feelings of weakness should he give in . . .

He suddenly felt as if everyone were watching him. He felt as if they were watching to see if he would eat or snack or even just linger by the fridge to look at the food they thought he needed, but when he looked up they seemed to quickly look away. Francis kneaded his dough on the flour-covered work-surface. Alfred jumped onto a kitchen-stool and sat eating carrot-sticks that had yet to be put out. Arthur thought he had heard them whispering to one another, but what were they saying?

Arthur rolled his eyes, hoping that they would see how little he cared, even if – truth were told – he _did _care. Then, with a rather violent gesture, he dropped the meat onto the cutting board beside Francis and began to roll it into small balls to flatten into burgers. He wasn't even sure that he _had _burger buns, but he didn't doubt that Canada would have brought some at _some _point for his brother . . .

"What do you think you are _doing_? _Sacré bleu_! I am _working _here!"

"Oh, shove it! This is _my _kitchen! I will work wherever I want!"

"Oh, _oui_, just _poison _all of _Amérique's_ guests, why don't you!" Francis said, as he threw some flour at Arthur and caused the Briton to cough wildly. "If anyone asks, I shall tell them _you _cooked, that would be believable, _non_?"

"Dude," America interrupted, "is this even _helpful_? I thought the idea of a party was so that everyone would feel all relaxed and stuff, so – you know – that Britain wouldn't feel all confronted and attacked. You even said like 'a casual setting will be less accusatory', isn't this like the _exact opposite _of what you said?"

"I also said you should let _me _do the talking," Francis snapped, as he found himself elbowed brutally in the side by England. "You also didn't warn me that my sanctuary would be _desecrated _by some _fool _who can't tell a colander from cutting board!"

"For the last time, _shut it_!"

Arthur picked up a small piece of meat and threw it into the dough that Francis was working on. The older man moved his hands away as if they had been burned, before he gave a ridiculously affronted and shocked expression that made England feel rather smug. He couldn't help but smile at having irked Francis just a little. The blond man was rather like a thorn in his side sometimes, and frankly he deserved a little retribution for insulting a man's cooking skills in his own kitchen.

It wouldn't have been so bad, but it seemed that Francis objected to having his 'masterpiece' destroyed in such a manner, and – in retaliation – threw a ball of dough at England's cheek. It stung a little and fell to the floor. It also left a floury mark on the Briton's face, a face that quickly turned into a darkened scowl and began to emanate a rather dark and menacing aura, because the very last thing he appreciated was France – of _all _people – assaulting him in such a childish way. If the damned bastard wanted a fight then he'd get one . . .

"Y-you are a brute! You black sheep of Europe!"

"I dare you to say that again. I'm already two seconds away from pushing this meat into those blond locks of yours. If you want to make things worse, then I'm jolly well up for that, you twat!"

"Oh, _oui_? Very well. You are the black sheep of Europe! Black sheep of –"

"Dude. _Not_ helping."

America came around the counter and pushed a hand out to stop England from attacking France. It was rather frightening how strong the younger nation had become, and no matter how had England swung his arms or pushed forward he just _couldn't quite reach _France enough to smash his head in with a rolling pin. France meanwhile hid behind America and laughed in a rather falsely arrogant way, as if trying to hide his fear and his nervousness.

"What is this about anyway?" Arthur asked. He stopped struggling against America's casual hold and instead regained his breath. "Is this supposed to be some sort of stupid 'intervention' you yanks are so fond of? If you _dare _mention anything about my eating habits then –"

"Do not blame _Amérique,_" Francis replied calmly, as he picked up the dough from the floor. "This was my idea. You enjoy cookery so much, _mon ami_! I thought you would feel more comfortable talking if we were doing an activity you enjoy, plus a party is a good distraction for all the other nations and for our Mathieu. It also will help you to relax after. If you are upset you could talk to Ludwig or Kiku, could you not?"

"I would much rather relieve stress by making you pay, you surrender-monkey!"

"Oh, I would like to see you try -!"

America gave a loud sigh and let his head fall forward in dismay. It was strange for Arthur to see the younger man so serious, because usually watching France and England fight seemed to be the highlight of Alfred's day, so much so that he would content himself with jeering and cheering from the sidelines. At this moment in time, however, he merely raised his fist hard upwards and hit France in the face.

It would have been a huge source of amusement for Arthur, were it not for the fact that no sooner had he began to laugh manically had Alfred turned around and picked up Arthur by the waist, and then threw the older nation of his shoulder. It was absolutely humiliating and infuriating! He was far older than America and still held a great amount of power and influence upon the world, in fact he was effectively in charge of the entire Commonwealth, and now America was _carrying _him like one would do to a petulant pre-pubescent! He began to kick furiously at Alfred, but the younger man didn't even seem to notice.

"P-put me down at once! What are you doing? I said – _damn it_!"

Arthur winced as he was dropped hard onto one of the kitchen chairs at the dining table. He glared up at Alfred, but the younger man was either oblivious to Arthur's attitude or simply indifferent to it. Alfred stood with hands on his hips, in a manner that actually reminded Arthur a little of himself, and he wore a pout on his lips that made his cheeks look a little chubby and blown out. It would have been adorable, if it weren't for the fact Arthur felt as if he were being held against his will.

"You know," Alfred said rather firmly, "I've seen you guys like alone and stuff, you actually get on alright . . . well, you don't fight so much at least. Why is it that as soon as there's like someone else in the room that you try to start World War Three? It's way lame! You'd think having some sort of referee would chill you both out, not stress you out all the more!"

Arthur let out a long breath . . .

If he were to be honest with himself, Francis wasn't a _completely _bad person. The Frenchman knew him rather well, he could be an awfully good sport at times, but – at the same time – he _was _a giant prat and they _didn't _have anything in common. If they were alone they could focus on some sort of common ground, no matter how ridiculous the common ground may be, and they would respond to bitter comments with more bitter comments. It rarely seemed to descend into madness.

Arthur could only assume it was because they felt a need to censor themselves when alone. Arthur rarely would attack Francis, and Francis would rarely cross any verbal lines, because they both knew that there would be no one there _to _referee them and make sure that things didn't go too far. If they fought with Germany present then he would scream at them to stop, if they took things too far with America present then eventually he may drag one of them to one side, but if they fought whilst they were alone . . . blood would likely be spilt. It was probably why they had taken to phone-conversations as of late, rather than meeting in person.

"Artie," Alfred said sadly, as he slipped into the seat opposite Arthur, "I wanted to do this with Francis present, because I thought he'd know you better than anyone, so you might feel more comfortable. The truth is that I'm really worried! I don't know what to do anymore! I just want you to talk to me."

"T-there's nothing to talk about!"

"You don't have to talk about everything, not if you don't want to," Alfred continued, as he leaned forward and tried to appear sympathetic. "I just thought you could start off small, but I'd like understand if you totally don't want to!"

Arthur caught the sad expression on Alfred's face. His heart broke.

Alfred had a small blush that just dusted his cheeks and his eyes were downcast as he stared sadly at the floor, and as he sat he kept his hand clasped between his legs and his back hunched almost like a child. It reminded him of those nights where America would wet the bed, or those times where he would come running into England's room after a nightmare . . . it even reminded him of the piteous look given to him on one rainy night with a gun in hand . . . he hated seeing America that way. He hated being the cause of that pain. He hated having failed Alfred.

"_Dites-lui, mon frére._"

"Tell him what? There's nothing to tell . . ."

"Tell him how long."

Francis placed a small mug of tea in front of Arthur. The blue-eyed man rested one hand on the back of Arthur's chair as he did so, which made him – at the very least – seem rather jovial and friendly. It didn't have the desired effect on England as it would the other countries, simply because – like his German cousin – he did _not _like someone entering his personal bubble without permission. After over a millennia Francis should have learned that by now.

Still . . . Alfred was _hurting_. He could see it in those eyes that were usually so full of life and energy, and as much as Arthur wanted to change for him – or at least be honest with him – he couldn't help but feel an immense guilt. He had done this. Alfred was hurt and broken _because of him_. It made him feel like he had failed his friend, that he needed to be punished for having brought such pain upon someone who meant so much to him, and yet what if he did just that? What if he starved himself to make himself feel better? That would only hurt Alfred more, and wouldn't that simply hurt Arthur more in the long-term? He hated feeling this way.

Arthur sighed as Francis took a seat at the dining table also. He noticed the way the Frenchman had slipped Alfred a cup of coffee, and how Alfred seemed to visibly relax, almost as if he had feared being made tea like his counterpart. Arthur wasn't sure when France had the time to make the damned concoctions, but he only hoped that Alfred would hate the coffee France had made just as much as he hated what England usually made him. He _still _maintained instant coffee was _exactly_ the same as any other form of coffee on the planet.

"There's nothing to tell . . ."

"Like, seriously?" Alfred stared lifelessly at his coffee. "Please, even if you don't tell me anything else . . . at least tell me when it started. You can tell me that much, right? How did it start?"

"When you left."

Arthur couldn't bear to look at Alfred as he said it. He didn't want to hurt Alfred, nor did he want the younger man to get the wrong idea, but he wanted honesty . . . he _asked _for honesty . . . so Arthur would give him that. If it shut him up and stopped him from asking any more questions, then Arthur would tell him just that one small fact. It wasn't as if he were doing it for America's sake . . . it was for _his _sake . . . although, for the first time in his life, he couldn't quite make himself believe it. He hated feeling that level of guilt. He hated it.

"When you left . . ."

' _. . . a part of me died.' _

_Britain looked down lifelessly into his beer. _

_There was just something about the murky liquid that eased his suffering just a little. The taste was bitter, the feeling of the hangover the next day would always hurt, but yet for those few moments – those few perfect moments – he could feel himself losing all control and feeling. The alcohol was like a tourniquet. It stopped the pain from spreading; it made it all seem so much easier to deal with . . . and with the beer in his system he felt as if nothing mattered. None of it mattered. _

_He hated this time of year. How many of his old colonies had their own version of 'Independence Day'? India, Cyprus, Afghanistan . . . he had never really cared, in fact for some of his old charges he hadn't even been aware that they _had _such celebrations . . . but for _America _to want to celebrate that . . . for America to want to relish in those memories . . . it was different. He hadn't had to fight a war that had nearly destroyed both involved nations with the others, he hadn't had to look them in the face after years of disagreement and no longer recognise the man he was looking at, and – most of all – he hadn't had to face himself afterwards. He hadn't had to look in the mirror and not even know who was staring back. _

_America had wanted nothing more than his independence, and Britain would never begrudge him that, but to throw such huge parties . . . to light the sky with fireworks and cheers . . . to flaunt Britain's loss in his face, to forget the deaths of thousands, to not even feel one iota of pleasure for the good old days . . . was England really so worthless to America now? Did those spent moments together mean nothing? It was America's birthday . . . England – _Arthur – _wanted to celebrate, but with those smiles would come the tears. He hated this time of year. He hated it. _

'_You need to stop drinking, _mon ami_! You will drink yourself to death!'_

'_Good, bloody teach that sodding git a blooming lesson . . .'_

'Mon Dieu, _why do you always get so _British _when you're drunk! _Hélas!'

_There had been a time when England could remember reaching out to a young boy that would hang on his every word . . . Alfred had the biggest blue eyes that he could ever remember, his smile would light up a room, and he was so polite and gentle . . . there was finally a real reason to live. He had someone who needed him, someone who depended upon him, someone who cared about him . . . finally he had someone in his life. He wasn't alone. In those moments he wasn't alone. _

'_Oh God, the sounds are too bright . . . I can still hear him. I'm so alone.'_

'Alors, _you'll always have _moi_,' France said cheerfully from beside the bar. 'Why don't you go to him? You clung to him as a baby brother so you would have someone to love, _oui_? He may not be your little brother any more, _mon ami_, but he still loves you very much. Do you think yourself unlovable?'_

'_Germany slammed the door in my face . . . Japan is slowly siding with him and Italy . . . I'm just a joke to America . . . you hate me . . . my colonies are slowly revolting . . . I was his big brother! Now I'm not.'_

'_That does not mean that you are nothing! He did not love you because you were his _brother; _he loved you because you were _Arthur!_ People do not love a role; they love the person behind that role! You were his role model, his guardian, and his friend. The reason he pitied you is _not _because you lost the war, it is because you acted so pitiful that you wound your own self-worth up in a single battle!'_

'_Piss off, wanker.'_

_Britain heard a few muffled footsteps and suddenly felt cold. Very cold. _

_The beer in his hands was suddenly gone, but even though he fumbled around trying to find it, – trying in his panic-stricken confusion to remember – it eluded him. It made him afraid. He needed the beer, because without it he had no reason to stay in this godforsaken bar, and then he might just remember Alfred . . . Alfred who had grown so fast and so quickly . . . the boy who no longer needed him. If only he could figure out why his hair was wet . . . _

_He licked his lips and tasted beer. There was a shadow over him and suddenly a glass – or two – was in front of him, it – or they, he wasn't sure – was empty and taunting him, but it looked like his beer glass . . . he was sure he could smell cologne too, which he never wore. In a split second he thought maybe it was Alfred. Alfred sometimes got cologne as a gift from Francis when the git wasn't trying to be a pervert, but then why would Alfred be here . . .where was Francis? Hadn't Francis been here? Wait, was – was that beer on his head? When did that bloody happen? Now he was all wet and drunk and wet . . . _

'_We're taking you home,' Francis snapped. 'It would be the worst time for you to catch a cold right now, there's a war on its way!'_

'_No, that happened ages ago . . . I still have the scars . . .'_

'_You fool . . . it is time to go.'_

_Arthur felt a rather strong arm slip underneath him. He felt as if he had lost his balance, because his body slopped to the side without his meaning to, but then something – or someone – held him in place. It was like floating . . . or flying . . . he was being held and guided. He was being led to somewhere new. Europe was breaking apart at the seams. His empire was becoming a shadow of what it once was. Who was he? Who the hell was he?_

_He didn't have the strength of France. He couldn't carry another nation like this, but then who would have let him this close to help them anyway? He didn't have pretty hair like France or that sweet personality of his America or the mystery of Japan . . . he was just Arthur. He was the man with nothing and no one. What was the point?_

'_Why -? Why does everyone leave me?'_

"Artie? You okay? You seem a bit spaced out."

"A-ah! It's nothing! Oh, what am I saying? That was all so long ago!"

Arthur smiled weakly and awkwardly.

He waved and flapped his hands wildly to try and dismiss what he had said earlier to America, because – he hoped – that Alfred would simply forget that he had been the start of this whole thing. The very last thing he wanted was for Alfred to blame himself for all of this, because Alfred wasn't the _cause_, only the _trigger_. Alfred was such a sensitive chap. The very last thing he wanted was to hurt him.

Francis, however, seemed to be watching him with amusement. It was the sort of smile that made him want to smack it straight from his face, but with Alfred looking so serious – so forlorn – he couldn't bring himself to start an argument right then. He felt weak, open, and vulnerable . . . he felt exposed . . . yet he knew, no matter how much he revealed about himself, that whatever he revealed would also hurt America too. They very rarely spoke seriously to one another, even less did they open up emotionally, so this would all be new to Alfred. To Arthur it was like opening an old wound, but to Alfred it would a wound made afresh. It hurt.

"It's nothing! I better get back to making those burgers, I –"

Arthur had jumped to his feet, but something had pulled him back. He found himself forcefully landing back in his seat, and when he looked he saw Alfred's hand embracing his wrist. The younger man looked rather concerned as he sat opposite Arthur with an awfully dark expression. Arthur had forgotten how strong Alfred could be. He wanted to run, but he couldn't. He couldn't even yell out or make a scene, because with so many nations about someone was _bound _to come running.

"Since I left?" Alfred said sadly. "You mean I'm the reason you don't eat?"

"_Non, pas du tout_!" Francis said loudly. "Do not let him let you think that! Arthur did not mean it that way, did you, _Angleterre_? You have to be the _worst _big brother sometimes, _je ne peux pas le croire_!"

"I-it's not like that," Arthur snapped. "There were problems before all of _that_. I guess the war just . . . it took a lot out of me . . . more than I could give."

"So it's my fault?" Alfred asked sadly.

"No, God no!"

Arthur crossed his arms across his chest. He tried to hide into himself, but he could feel Francis' penetrative stare striking him hard. It felt like he was being watched – _judged _– and he couldn't blame them for looking at him that way. The way Alfred's puppy-dog eyes looked at him with such pain, such heartbreak, and he had caused all of that. He had struck a blow to Alfred's heart. He had hurt Alfred once before, he couldn't do that to him again . . . not now . . . not like this.

He clenched hard onto his arms, desperately trying to find a way out of this, but now that Alfred knew there was no going back. He felt cornered and trapped. Francis knew him better than he knew himself, Alfred was the one person who ever mattered to him, and both were there . . . staring at him . . . waiting for answers. The guilt he felt for hurting Alfred was too much to bear, but the fear he felt in revealing his emotions for the younger man to see . . . _impossible_. What if Alfred mocked him or laughed? What if he sounded an idiot? What if – worse – they pitied him or feared him? This was not a problem. Why did they insist on _making _it a problem?

He – he wasn't too thin, was he? He wasn't exactly starving himself. It wasn't as if he would die by such simple means, and even if he could . . . no, he wouldn't allow himself to think such thoughts. It was simply that the very thought of discussing his emotions so openly was rather devastating, especially from such a stoic and inexpressive nation. He felt as if he were acting a fool or playing into their hands, and yet the more his palms sweated and his lip bled from where he bit it the worse he felt.

"You know, _Angleterre_, that it is safe to show emotion? Even if we were to tell anyone they would not believe us! There is no way that you could possibly lose face, _oui_? You can speak freely."

"Bloody easy for you to say! You act a fool all the time!"

"Dude, it's not foolish to like say how you feel," Alfred said, in an oddly wise way. "I mean I really care about you. It'd be a total bummer if you died or something! I just want to know why you do it . . . I promise not to make you stop if you're not ready, and I won't judge you for feeling like you do . . . but was it me? Was it the war?"

Arthur ran a hand over his face and drew in a deep breath.

He wondered if this was how Germany felt when dealing with Italy. There was a love and consideration there for Alfred, there truly was, but at the same time he felt exasperated and tired . . . he wanted to be honest and open, for Alfred's sake, but it just wasn't in his personality. It just wasn't in Arthur to do so. It hurt him . . . the guilt, the shame, the sheer _isolation . . . _he was alone in his fears, alone in his diet, but to just reach out . . . what if he just pushed people away more?

"It started before then, long before," Arthur explained sadly.

"How long?"

"I don't know. It was just the feelings at first, but then when the war happened . . ." England sighed and leaned back in his chair. He took a sip of his tea and tried not to look anyone in the eye as he spoke. "There aren't many nations that speak for _multiple_ nations, you know! You bloody fools, it's easy for _you, _when _you _speak you only have to worry about yourselves and how you look. It's different for me. How many other nations were like me?

"The only other one I can think of is the Holy Roman Empire. He built me some amazing architecture long ago, he visited me a lot, and he was such a nice old chap, but then what? Look what happened to him! He was the voice of so many regions and countries, he spoke for so many people, and I'm not jolly well saying _that's _why he went away as he did, but it was a big factor! In the end they all turned on him as they're turning on me. You don't know what it's like to be one great nation in an empty house, slowly losing everyone around you.

"I'm not just Arthur. I'm not even just England. I'm the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. I've never been my own person, because I've always had to speak for an entire empire, and now . . . now I speak for _three _radically different nations! I can't ever say anything without it affecting them, and then _they _hate me for having said it . . . I might as well say nothing at all!

"No one can remember where _I _began and where I end . . ."

Arthur sat his tea down on the table and looked sadly at his hand. It was a part of his body, it was controlled by his mind, but it wasn't _his_, not really. It didn't matter what he did or said, because whatever choice he made inevitably affected his three brothers, each one who inevitably lost some of their own identity and independence by allowing Arthur to be the voice for all. It was a lot of pressure. It was even more so when he knew whatever he did was always wrong. _Always wrong . . . _

"I don't even know who I am anymore. My borders changed so much over the years, and then there was my empire, and that's not to mention how my culture keeps changing every day . . . I don't even recognise myself anymore. I jolly well wish I _could_ be like you. I wish I could speak only for myself. I try my best, but no matter what I do they just resent me for it. Scotland is even threatening to split away from me, and I don't even know why, not really . . . it's just another abandonment."

_Who am I?_

That was one question to which the answer had always eluded him. He had always been told since childhood what to wear, how long to have his hair, how to act in polite society . . . his whole personality had been dictated to him for as long as he could remember. He tried to be himself, but even then no one seemed to appreciate him when he did. In the end – after so long of people telling him what was wrong with him – he had internalised it.

He had doubted himself. He had questioned everything that he did, he had questioned who he was, and eventually he had reinvented himself constantly in order to try and find a sense of purpose and meaning. He had been the druid priest, the cutthroat pirate, and the punk rocker . . . he had been so many things that he had forgotten who he was. He felt lost. The only connecting feature, the one thing that had followed him through every persona, was the way that everyone always had _some _sort of gripe with him. If he could just _fix _himself . . . if he could find that _one _common fault and put it right . . . his weight was the only common denominator. Alfred would never understand that though.

_You know why . . . _

"Ah, so you feel lost? _Ça_ _me rend triste._ _Désolé_."

_I remember when you were great . . . _

The smell of the tea was an odd relief to Arthur. In a strange way it took him back to a time that he would rather forget, a time when he had ignored America's basic rights and individuality, when he had seen him as a mere little brother, as someone who needed to be spoken for and who didn't need a voice . . . why should he? He was a child and children _couldn't _speak for themselves. Then – one night in Boston – came what had felt like a teenage rebellion, a temper tantrum . . . he never suspected that it was anything more. He never thought that it was a sign of things to come.

"I – I don't get it," America admitted in a whispered voice. "I mean, I get why you'd feel sad, but what has that to do with wanting to lose weight? Like, Matthew totally says I shouldn't say this to you, but _you're not fat_! Okay, so the eyebrows are a bit big, but you always seemed pretty cool to me. You weren't like anyone else. You were always so well-dressed and fancy."

_But not anymore_?

"Ah, hush, Alfred!" Francis said brusquely. "If you can not read the atmosphere then read my lips instead: do not comment on things you do not understand! _Ç__a alors! _I shall explain to you later._"_

"Hey, not cool! I'm not a child! I don't need explaining to!"

"It's fine, Alfred," Arthur continued, all too calmly to be natural. "I guess it's not _all _about just losing weight, or – at least – that's what I imagine the perverted frog is trying to say. Unfortunately I do not speak the language of 'prat'."

"Why do you both always gang up on me?" Francis snapped. "I am only trying to help! You would think I was bullying poor Alfred!"

"So," Alfred said, as he ignored Francis, "what do I have to do with it?"

"That's a long story, pet."

Alfred frowned and looked rather annoyed. He always objected to common terms of endearment like 'pet', 'love', or 'duck', almost as if by accepting them he would somehow be reverting back into that once role of 'baby brother', but with such terms so common throughout the United Kingdom he tended to ignore them. It still didn't seem to make the younger man feel any less offended though. He probably felt patronised, but that wasn't the case at all.

It hurt. It hurt that Alfred didn't understand what Arthur was trying to tell him, that he thought that this was somehow all about weight, and – in a way – it _was_, but it was also about _so much more _than that. Alfred seemed to have a superficial understanding about what this all meant, but he seemed to expect straight lines and simple answers. It was difficult to explain, but impossible now he knew that Alfred just wouldn't understand, and by opening up he felt more alone than ever. He had exposed his heart on his sleeve and Alfred's response had been 'dude, you're not fat though', as if that had anything to do with any of it!

"I don't expect you to understand."

"I _want _to understand though! Why do you do it, dude?"

'_Mr Britain? Mr America?'_

The kitchen door cracked open a little to reveal Japan. It was almost a relief to see the familiar man in the midst of the most awkward conversation of his life, but a small part of him felt as if this was the worst time to ever see him. Kiku was one of his best friends, perhaps his _only _best friend, and yet as much as that meant he should have trusted him, it simply meant that he feared losing face in front of Kiku most of all. What if he had heard something? _What if he knew_?

It seemed that somewhere behind Japan that Italy was prancing about with a tray of appetisers, apparently much to the horror of a waiter who knew that his job relied solely upon serving others. Feliciano seemed to be happy though. Arthur could hear him chatting about how the best foods came from the south of Europe, whilst Gilbert's voice sang out loud from the karaoke, and from some distant corner he could hear Lovino screaming about how he wished to go home. Arthur hated the noise, but he liked the fact that everyone seemed normal. They were something dependable and never changing. He could always count on them to be the same.

"I thought I should tell you that many are asking where you are hiding," Japan informed them. "It is, after all, Mr Britain's house and Mr America is the host. I do not wish people to accuse you of rudeness. _Sumimasen_."

"Ah, not at all, old chap! We'll be right out in a tic! Just one mo, eh?"

"Of course, please excuse me."

Arthur watched as Japan slid back out of the kitchen. It was something of a relief, and yet he felt a twinge of sadness. He hated to admit it, but there was something of a relief in having opened up to another person, even if just for a second. It had been a secret for so long. He had spent nights worrying if it were too much for him, days spent questioning how he would hide it, and yet now someone knew . . . it wasn't the end of the world. It wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be.

"It's been oddly nice talking to you, Alfred," Arthur admitted. "Don't get me wrong, I would rather die than have to have this conversation again, but I do feel a tad lighter for it. Just a wee bit. N-not that I was feeling sad before! I wasn't sad! I-it's just that I don't have to worry about how I'm going to hide my leftovers now, that's all."

"Yeah, totally . . ."

"I tried to be a rebel for so long," Arthur said conversationally, as he reached for Alfred's mug and his own. "I thought it'd be a way of exerting my own individuality, but I guess I didn't realise every human and nation goes through the same phase. I guess I still don't know who I really am, but I know what I want to be. I'm going to be someone you can look up to. I'm going to regain my self-control and start by losing some weight. I can't believe I let myself go like that."

Arthur moved over to the sink and put the two mugs inside. It felt natural to tidy up; perhaps an instinct from his days spent looking after Alfred. It was difficult tidying after a child who seemed intent on causing a new mess as soon as an old one had been created, and even if he tried then little Alfred would only cry that Arthur's attention was elsewhere, so it had become a habit to tidy up at night. The ex-pirate would wait until Alfred was asleep and tidy. It was quiet time. It was a relaxing time.

It was simply something to take his mind off of things. If he were washing a mug then he wasn't worrying about what Alfred was thinking, if he were wiping away the flour then he wasn't worrying about that look he had seen on his friend's face . . . _the look_. Alfred was so out of sorts. There was a hint of anger in his eyes, a slight coldness to his tone that was out of his usual character, and he seemed to hunch over as if unsure whether to cry aloud or punch the wall. Arthur couldn't bear to feel the guilt. Not now. If he had hurt Alfred like that then he might never eat again, because to hurt Alfred was almost a sin. It deserved punishment.

"It was different when I first met you," Arthur admitted sadly. "You looked up to me. You were the only person in my life who ever cared about me, and I had so much to live up to and such an example to set. I lost myself in trying to be what you needed me to be, but I didn't care. I would do anything for you. I never knew what friendship or love were until I realised what it meant to sacrifice everything for someone."

"Uh-huh."

"I grew up. I realised that there were more important things than gold or magic. I started to find out who I was and what that meant. I felt . . . _proud_. I was a big brother. That was my purpose. _You _were my purpose. I guess when you left . . . suddenly I felt like I had lost all my meaning . . . if you were not my little brother, then what were you? Who was I?" Arthur laughed nervously. "Ah, you must think me such a fool! It's as if my personality depends on you! I'm getting sentimental in my old age. I just thought that finally I knew who I was, that I had _worth, _but . . . well . . . after the war I was back to where I started. It just reminded me I was nothing."

Arthur jumped a little when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He felt his heart skip a little. It was a heavy feeling of relief, rather like a mixture between pain and pleasure. There was a hard stab of pain in his gut, one that caused him to double over a little in surprise, but along with it he felt a weight off his shoulders that finally allowed him to breathe once more. Just that one touch . . . just that one reassurance . . . it stopped the feelings of loneliness in its tracks.

How had he let the fear get so bad? He felt like a schoolgirl complaining about how everyone left him, but the truth of the matter was that everyone did, and the day that Alfred left him had reaffirmed every last fear Arthur had ever felt. He had spent his whole life trying to work out who he was, he had changed himself over and over, but when Alfred had stood there – looking at him with pity and estrangement – he had realised in that moment it was for nothing. It didn't matter what he did. He could never change. He would never be anything. Why did no one care about him?

Arthur sighed a sigh of relief. It felt good to have told everything to Alfred, to have gotten everything off his chest, because now it felt as if a wrong had been righted. Alfred knew the truth and now. He knew the truth and he _forgave _Arthur. It wasn't everything, but it was a start . . . Arthur knew his pain was deep-rooted, that it would take a long time to work through, but to have that one incident – that one moment of horror – eased just slightly . . . it was a relief unlike any other.

He turned to speak to Alfred, but stopped.

It was Francis.

_Francis._

"I had to put on a stiff upper lip," he said sadly. He smiled and pretended as if hadn't been dealt a blow so strong that it had left him breathless. "I couldn't lose face. My image was all that I had left . . . without it I really _would _be nothing . . ."

"_Mon frere, _it is okay, we are here for you. Isn't that right, _Amerique_?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Totally."

Arthur looked across the room and saw Alfred. He sat at the table with his head on his hand and a rather indescribable expression on his face, one that Arthur couldn't comprehend. Then again, it didn't really matter to Arthur . . . he couldn't see anything past the pain in his heart. He hadn't meant at all to build up his hopes, but that was the nature of hope . . . it was a demon that stole its way into your soul without your knowing so, only to be dashed at the last moment.

"Well, I better get back to the party," Arthur said.

He couldn't breathe, but nor could he let that damnable frog or arrogant brat see that. He would be damned if he showed any weakness right then, especially when there wasn't anything to get upset about anyway. Everything was fine. He was simply dieting. He had simply opened up to a friend. America didn't think any less of him, and his diet wouldn't kill him in the long run . . . nothing had changed!

Arthur walked across the room and picked up a tray of wine glasses – not champagne, _non, champagne comes from the country of love, and _this _abomination is not loved at all! This is merely wine – _and decided that he would mingle somewhat. The tray felt heavy in his hand. He couldn't understand why his palms felt sweaty and his eyes blurry, but some conversation with Japan would do him good. He tried to adjust his eyesight. He seemed to lose his balance a little, but then the tray began to rattle and his breath seemed to escape him. There was a sudden cramp in his stomach and his fingers seemed to close of their own accord. He had lost what control he had. He felt afraid. _He felt afraid_.

He wasn't sure if it were a mere panic attack or the effects of the starvation . . .

All he knew was that the world went black.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay! I have _a sequel _and _a Russia one-shot _planned, so I'll be writing and uploading these once this story is completed. Thank you to "thecrazygingeredgirl", "ShadowAlchemist503", "xxxprettyinpinkxxx" and "purestrongpoem" for their reviews. Thanks also to everyone who has put this story on their favourite or alerts list!

**To "ShadowAlchemist503":** First up, happy birthday! Thank you very much for your reviews, it always means the world to get detailed feedback, especially for each chapter. I hope this chapter lives up to the rest; it's always strange to write again after such a long break, lol.

**To "wwwprettyinpinkxxx": **Thank you for the review! I responded to you via a private message, but – long story short – no shipping in this story. Sorry!

**Chapter Six**

'_Oh, gee, another suit . . .'_

_Alfred gave a nervous sort of smile. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the presents, but sometimes it just felt as if Arthur were buying for someone else, or as if he were buying for the person he wanted Alfred to be rather than who Alfred was. Did he even have Alfred in mind when he brought these? He had to, right? They were in his size and all, but . . . these were so Arthur's style._

_He smiled as best as he could. He smiled because he _had _to. If he did anything else then he would just hurt Arthur's feelings, and that would be cruel considering he'd tried so hard to please him. He didn't want to hurt the man who had done so much for him. He didn't want to hurt someone who so clearly loved him. It was just that he didn't _used _to have to fake smiling so much, because at one point the smiles had been so real and so sincere. Arthur had been his big brother and his hero, everything he did had been new and exciting, and he always thought of America before all else!_

'Mr Britain, you're back!' . . . 'So this is what you call "delicious" food? It's so yummy!' . . . 'You're so strong, you scared away Mr Spain like it wasn't any trouble at all!' . . . 'Wow, you even painted all their faces different!' . . . 'Tell me a story!'

_Okay, so Alfred had been just a kid then, he would have been impressed by pretty much _anything! _Still, there was always something special about Britain. He was America's hero! Britain nearly broke his hand making soldiers for America, he would burn his arm on the oven cooking dinner for him, and he would always be there for him when he needed him most. He was America's big brother. He was America's big brother, only . . . only America wasn't little anymore!_

_He didn't _want _to be dressed like a doll, told how to act, told how to speak . . . _

_He wanted to be treated like an _adult.

_'I appreciate this, Britain, I really do,' America said, as politely as possible. 'I just don't know where I'd wear it, you know? It's not really my kind of style. Plus we don't really have those kinds of fancy parties here that you do.'_

'_Nonsense, lad! You can't well go looking like a cowboy forever.'_

'_Well . . . why can't I? I mean, no one tells France what to wear, even if he does look really girly and weird. I don't think I've ever even seen him wear anything else. I mean, like, what if this is just who I am?' America looked sadly at the black bowtie and thought of how suffocating those things felt. 'I like open shirts and leather gloves. They've comfy and practical. I have to work outdoors a lot.'_

'_Never mind that! We'll get you people to do all the work for you. Seriously though, do you really think this is who you are? You can be so much _more_, America! This is just the start. You'll be a gentleman before you know it!'_

'_But I _like _working outdoors . . . and I _like_ being the way I am.'_

_'Just try it on, you'll soon change your mind.'_

'_Okay . . .'_

_The truth was that America didn't want to change. He was just beginning to discover who Alfred F. Jones really was; his people were just beginning to truly settle and develop, and his country and home were beginning to take shape. He loved Britain more than anything, but he didn't want to emulate him, not now, not when he was finally starting to learn who he was as a person . . . as a nation . . . as an _adult.

_Britain was his idol, but if he kept copying Britain – trying to imitate his childhood hero – then how would he ever grow into his own person? It was like Britain was _trying _to keep him like a child! Maybe he just _couldn't _see America as anything other than a little brother, or maybe he just didn't _want_ to, but surely he realised that America was growing up? That seemed to be the problem. America was growing up, but the more he grew the more Britain desperately seemed to cling to the idea that America still needed looking after and protecting!_

_America still resented being taxed without getting a voice in parliament. It was like making a teenager pay towards the mortgage without letting them have a say in how the house was run. It was _way _unfair! Maybe it really was just a phase? Didn't little brothers grow up to be just like their big brothers? Didn't elder brothers guide the younger ones on their way and kept them on the straight path? The problem was that if Britain kept on babying him then he would never grow to be 'America'. _

'_What if I don't like it though?'_

'_Then I'll buy you another colour. I thought black would suit you though; it's very fashionable on men in London at the moment! The waistcoat should be very flattering too, but I'm not quite sure on the cut. You'll be the talk of the town!'_

_But they weren't _in _London and 'talk of the town' _wasn't_ a good thing to America!_

_He adopted his nervous smile again. It was the same smile he wore whenever Arthur served him burnt meat, and the same smile he wore when Arthur crossed out 'plow' on his personal documents and changed it to 'plough', and the same smile he wore when Arthur would tell him that his fork should never leave his left hand. He knew rationally that Arthur was trying to help him – in his own way – but it just felt _way _too stifling! He didn't care about European etiquette. He wasn't European. He was America. _America_. Why couldn't England see that?_

'_Hey,' Alfred said casually, 'maybe you could try one of my outfits after?'_

'_W-what? Certainly not! I would never be able to face polite society again, if they discovered I had spent time dressed in pauper's attire! Now go on, Alfred, it's rude to keep a guest waiting.'_

'_Yeah, I remember.'_

_That was just like England, quick to make the rules and quick to break them . . ._

_Still, the man looked so damned _proud_, as if he really thought a change of clothes would be beneficial to Alfred in some way, as if he were doing Alfred a favour. He stood with arms folded and with a rather expectant look in his green eyes. He kind of seemed excited, like this was somehow just as much a gift for him as it was for his 'little brother'. He really did see Alfred as just some kid, huh?_

_Alfred could feel his smile faltering, as it had a lot lately, but he managed to keep himself composed quite well. There was a part of him that just wanted to mock England for his clothing choices, but a 'dude, seriously' would only offend Britain and hurt his feelings, so Alfred reigned in his annoyance and contempt for the costume. If Arthur were anyone else he _would _have just laughed at the suit, because that's what friends and equals did, they didn't have to hide their feelings, they could be honest and they could bicker. Arthur wasn't his equal though. He was the 'big brother'. He had to respect him and hold back. He had to be polite. _

'_So, er, I was thinking that maybe we could talk some politics?'_

_Alfred walked behind the screen and drew it closed. It was always a nuisance to have to get changed behind a screen, but that was another one of England's many rules. It would be nice to get to make some of his _own_ rules. Still, now he was getting older there was a chance that finally he'd get to do make rules of his own! He smiled at the thought as he undressed. It'd nice to get to be the adult for once, to finally be the hero instead of just a tagalong nation!_

'_Oh, you needn't worry about politics, Alfred,' Arthur chirped from the other side of the screen. 'I'll deal with all of that for you. Have you eaten yet? Why don't we go out to eat? You can show off your lovely new suit.'_

'_Yeah, but I was really hoping to talk to you about my people.'_

'_I'll deal with it. Trust me, Alfred.'_

_It – it wasn't fair. Alfred had a voice, didn't he? He wasn't a child anymore! He shouldn't have to abide by the 'seen and not heard' rule; he should be allowed his own say. It wasn't as if he wanted to change the world, he didn't even really want special treatment or complete independence, he just wanted to be _heard_. He just wanted England to _listen _to him and consider his feelings once in a while. It felt like Arthur no longer knew him; instead he only knew what he once was . . . _

_Alfred took a long while to change. It was difficult to figure out what went where and how all the pieces fitted together, but in the end he somehow managed it. He felt restricted and uncomfortable, the bowtie around his stiff collar was tight enough to feel suffocating, and the material rubbed against his skin in a rather uncomfortable way. It was smothering him. The suit was smothering him, but so were England's expectations and perceptions. He wasn't a child anymore. He wasn't a gentleman and he never would be. Why couldn't Arthur buy him chaps or gloves or a new hat? If this were a gift then why did it feel more like a gift for Arthur than for Alfred? Why was he so adamant on loving his 'little brother' when it meant ignoring 'Alfred'?_

_He felt ten times smaller than normal in this outfit. It made him feel like he was trying too hard to be someone that he wasn't, like a bad actor hiding behind a mask, and yet when he stepped out from behind the screen Arthur looked so _proud_. He looked like a parent who'd seen their child take their first steps, or a teacher whose pupil had finally learned to pay attention in class . . . it was nice to be the centre of positive attention, but not with that kind of look . . . he wanted Arthur to smile at him because he admired him as an equal, not because he thought of him as adorable as a child. _

'_It suits you so well! You look spiffing!'_

'_I guess . . .'_

'_Take a look in the mirror, you won't even recognise yourself!'_

_Alfred walked across to the full-length mirror and stared at himself hard. He tried to adjust the cuffs of the shirt, but they still seemed to get in his way. It just . . . it wasn't him! He could wear the suit, yeah, but it wouldn't make him any more like Britain than he already was. He hated these clothes, but he couldn't say that, could he? It just didn't feel right. It was like he was looking at someone else. A stranger. He was looking at a stranger when the person he wanted to see most was himself. _

'_I don't . . . I don't recognise myself at all . . .'_

'_Wonderful! I knew you'd like it!'_

'_I guess . . . I could wear it to church on Sundays, maybe?'_

_Well, there had to be a use for it, didn't there? His people had gone for so long with barely anything to their names, it seemed a shame to put anything to waste, even if it wasn't something to his taste. He couldn't be ungrateful for such a gift, especially when England meant so well by it. Still, when he looked in the mirror he didn't like what he saw. He wanted to see Alfred. He wanted to see America. _

_He had to wonder . . . _

Did Arthur feel the same way when he saw himself?

It couldn't be just a matter of Arthur not liking what he saw. It wasn't as if Arthur were ugly or unattractive, in fact he attracted quite a lot of attention for being rather handsome. Everyone always complimented him for his eyes and his expressive features and his pleasant frame, even Alfred felt a little jealous some of the time, because Arthur was . . . well . . . always admired. Okay, so he wasn't perfect, but then hardly any of the nations were! What was it that Arthur saw?

Alfred couldn't lie, because Arthur was teased a lot, but that wasn't because he was _ugly_! It was just sibling rivalry or something . . . like when Francis always teased him, it wasn't because he _hated _Arthur, but just because that was what brothers kind of did. It just didn't make sense! How could Arthur not like what he saw? Why did he want to change so much? Alfred just didn't understand it. He couldn't understand how someone could hate themselves so much that they would want to starve themselves half to death, or how they could want to regain a sense of control by _losing _all control! Arthur wasn't controlling his diet at all! He was just being controlled by some big and scary eating disorder thing, that . . . _that scared Alfred_.

It was just hard to digest! Alfred couldn't help but blame himself, because it had to be a bit of his fault, didn't it? Arthur had started this whole thing because Alfred had left him, even if the whole mess started long before that one moment, and Alfred didn't want to feel that kind of guilt. He was meant to be the hero! He was meant to _protect _the people who mattered! How could he be the hero when he was the reason for England's distress? He hated England for making him feel this way. He hated himself for having let things get this far . . .

He hated not knowing _what _to feel.

"Aiyah!"

"Huh, what's up? Dude, is he okay?"

"Britain's blood pressure is still really low, aru!"

China leaned down over the bed and let out a long sigh. The eldest nation looked pretty worried, which only served to worry America in turn! Seriously! China was like the most knowledgeable about medicines and how the nations worked, so if he seemed flustered and nervous that had to be a bad sign, didn't it? He seemed a little pale and each time he leaned forward his long ponytail would get in his way.

America kept moving forwards to get a better look at what the older man was doing, but it just seemed to piss China off! He would turn around and yell at America and tell him to go back to his corner, almost like America was just some stupid kid or something! He just wanted to make sure England was okay . . . he hated not being able to help or do anything, because it was his job to make it all better, that's what heroes _did _after all! He just didn't know what to do. This wasn't like a cold or a fever, and a hamburger would just make England worse on so many levels, but at the very least China could give him _something_ to do, just something to make him feel useful, something to make England better . . .

"Is that like a bad thing?"

"Well, it depends," China continued, "he could just have naturally low blood-pressure, but because of his fainting spell and low body weight . . . ah, this isn't good! I think he should see a doctor, aru! I'll get him some of my special medicine!"

"What? No way! That stuff's like totally lethal! I want him to get better, not lose his colon crapping out some sort of dodgy drugs and gross-tasting tea!"

"Hey! My medicines are famous worldwide!"

"Yeah, as being uselessly lethal!"

China turned around and pointed a finger angrily at America. He looked kind of like a girl in his traditional wear, what with that long and red dress thing, but frankly – even for a girl – he seemed kind of scary when he was angry! America was pretty used to these temper tantrums and outbreaks over the years, but generally when China acted this way America just tended to turn his head to the side with eyes closed casually, whilst crossing his arms or keeping his hands on his hips. Today wasn't any different.

"You called me here to help Britain, aru! You shouldn't be so rude!"

"Hey, I said I'm sorry, okay! But, if he's like stable and stuff, shouldn't we call a _real _doctor to look at him? I just don't see what good poking him with knitting needles or plying him with tree roots is going to do, it's totally bogus!"

"The herbs I were thinking of contain zinc, which will increase appetite! They also contain iron to replenish blood, essential vitamins, and omega-three!"

"What the hell kind of herbs naturally contain _all_ of that?"

"Chinese herbs, of course!"

"_W-would you wankers keep it bloody down?" _

Britain raised a hand to his head in a rather sleepy gesture. The Union Jack bedspread crumpled a little as he lifted his knee and began to fidget, but frankly America was just too grateful that England was awake to even care about how he looked! Okay, so he still looked really sick and half-starved, but he was awake and able to complain again! If Britain was able to complain then that was basically a big sign that he was back to being full-health! It was a huge relief!

Alfred could see how unfocussed Arthur's eyes were, how pale his skin was and how sunken it seemed, and as he sat up Alfred could see the extent of this 'diet' and how it was effecting his old mentor. He couldn't remember the blond Briton ever having been so thin whilst he was growing up, or at least not so much that just sitting up seemed to be an effort for him, or so much that his body looked like it might break in half with a mere push. How had Alfred never noticed this before now? How had he not seen the signs that his closest companion had grown so weak? He had fainted! He had actually fainted! And Alfred had been helpless to stop it . . .

Still, Arthur was awake! Alfred could have collapsed in relief, except the heroes never collapsed, because that was something that damsels in distress did! He had been so scared at first . . . what if Arthur was really hurt, what if Arthur was really sick, what if Arthur _died_ . . . worse . . . what if he died thinking that Alfred didn't care? He never really felt guilty about stuff before, but that . . . that made him feel awful. He couldn't let England die thinking that! He couldn't!

Alfred dived straight for Arthur and threw his arms around his neck. He heard Yao complain loudly as he pushed Yao to one side to get to his sickly friend, and he felt Arthur collapse beneath him as he put all his weight upon the weaker man. He couldn't stop hugging him, even as both Yao and Arthur objected loudly, because this had to be the greatest moment ever! He was alive and that meant he could get better!

"Dude! You're okay!"

"W-what the -? Get off me, you prat! My head is pounding . . ."

"Nah-uh! I'm not letting go!"

Arthur began to choke a little under the pressure. Alfred loosened his grip, but he kept his hold on Arthur and continued to cling to him as if his life depended upon it. The Briton beneath him struggled furiously, but no one could be a match for Alfred! It felt nice to hug him again, like when he was a child and wanted some sort of comfort, only now he just wanted reassurance. He just wanted to remind himself that his childhood hero was okay and safe! It didn't matter that he could feel ribs and the outline of a spine, because just hugging Arthur – just touching him – was enough to remind him that Arthur was _alive_.

"Ah, let go, aru!" Yao said, as he smacked Alfred hard on the head. "He needs rest!"

"Dude! You're alive! I thought you were a goner!"

"Damn it, Alfred! Let go!"

Yao took a hard hold of Alfred's shoulders and pulled him back. Arthur sat upright at once and began to cough loudly as he tried to catch his breath, but Alfred only dropped to his knees beside the bed and looked up at Arthur with big and hopeful eyes. He knew that Arthur was probably exhausted, that Francis was probably worried sick downstairs, and that Yao was stressed from tending to England, but he just didn't care! Arthur was back!

"I think I shall be going downstairs now," Yao interjected with a hint of annoyance. "I need to fetch some equipment for a more extensive check. I shall be back in a moment, but if anything changes then send for Hong Kong right away, aru!"

"Dude, but England's fine, right?"

"There's no telling what damage has been done, yet! Right now he is conscious and seems fine, but we need to get him back to a good weight and make sure that he is healthy! Then we have to begin a long-term plan to deal with his disorder. Aiyah! These things take time! First physical, then mental! Right now he is awake, but that does not mean he is healed!"

Yao leaned down to pick up a bag from the floor. It had a few basic medical items, not much, but enough to leave Alfred questioning why any sane person would carry stuff like that around for. It was kind of weird. He was grateful though, because without Yao's help then Arthur would still be asleep and really sick! Still, the Chinese man had really weird ideas about medicine . . . maybe he should have asked one of the other nations for help instead?

Alfred looked at Yao and saw the tiredness in the man's face, the almost worry in his eyes that seemed hardened into something that Alfred couldn't quite understand, but he knew that Yao was trustworthy and wise beyond his years, well . . . at least he _could _be wise if you got past the Kitty obsession and the fondness for lazing about. Still, if anyone could fix Arthur, it had to be Yao, right? Okay, so Matthew was all 'you can't fix this', but Alfred knew that he could! He knew that this wasn't unfixable, because Arthur was strong. He was _stronger _than this. Just because he was letting this control him now, it didn't mean that Arthur couldn't control it instead!

"So, what now?" Alfred asked eagerly.

"Now I will fetch some equipment. I will be back shortly. Do not try to give him junk food! Aiyah, even if he wanted to eat it that would be a bad idea! Starving people need to slowly begin a proper diet, that kind of heavy food would shock his system!"

"I know, bro! I got this."

"In that case, _yíhuìr jiàn._"

Yao gave a small bow to Arthur and turned to walk away.

It didn't seem as if Arthur noticed too much, however, just because he still seemed to be a little disorientated and dizzy. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and brought a hand to his temple, touching the side of his head with a kind of apprehension that Alfred had never seen before, almost as if he were shocked to still be alive. Alfred hated that Yao was just leaving . . . what if something were wrong? Shouldn't he be running some sort of tests or something?

Yao left with a little click of the door. It was just a small sound, nothing really, but it was scarier than any of the scariest horror movies in the world! He was suddenly alone _with England_. It wasn't like it used to be, because before England was the grown-up, he was the one who used to look after America and make sure that everything was okay, but now . . . now he was sick! Now America had to protect him and frankly that thought kind of scared him. He wanted to be the hero – he did! – but to be _England's _hero was something else entirely! What if he said something to make it worse? What if England hated him after what happened earlier?

It sucked! He just wanted England to be _okay_, but he didn't know how. He didn't know how to make this all better! He felt kind of helpless, but as much as he wanted to scream and shout and rant and rave, he _couldn't, _because he had to be strong . . . he had to be strong for England's sake . . . but even though heroes were strong, even though they helped people, they had to have weaknesses. This – this was Alfred's weakness . . . he wanted to be strong, but he felt helpless . . .

"W-what happened?" Arthur asked. "It seems everything is a bit of blur."

"Oh, er, you passed out, bro, in the kitchen."

"I – I did? You must think me a right plonker! I do apologise! I don't know what came over me. It must have been the stress of the party."

"Yeah, sure, _stress_ . . ."

Alfred caught the pained look on Arthur's face and felt his heart sink. It was one thing to tease Arthur or to see him annoyed, but to see him look so heartbroken and devastated – especially when he was already so despondent – was something else entirely. There he was, just lying helplessly in bed, and instead of Alfred saying something supportive he had just _hurt _Arthur! That wasn't cool! That was something the bad guy did, not the good guy! He hated seeing Arthur's eyes downcast as if afraid to make eye-contact, and he hated seeing his eyes shimmer as if holding back tears. It was Arthur's 'Fourth of July look'. Alfred hated that look.

"W-well, I really am sorry for ruining your party."

"No, it's cool," Alfred said sadly, before adding: "I mean, you didn't ruin it at all! Like, sure, you passed out and all, and I kind of panicked, but the party's still going on and stuff, so like . . . yeah . . . it's cool."

"O-oh, I'm glad. You should probably get back to the party then."

"Artie! How can you say something like that?"

"Pardon?"

Arthur seemed to jump when Alfred suddenly took a hard hold of his hands. It felt really weird to be the one by Arthur's bedside, because usually that role fell to the other nations, to the ones who were more responsible or that had a more nurturing personality type . . . Francis would nurse the fevers, Matthew would nurse the emotional hurts . . . all Alfred ever needed to do was to fetch the hamburgers and just talk to Britain to keep him company. He had never had to do this before.

"I'm not leaving your side!" Alfred gripped tightly and refused to let go. "Do you have any idea how scared I was? Okay, so I wasn't really supportive . . . I get that . . . but I was _scared_, Artie! I was really scared and it was a lot to take in! I know I upset you, but I just . . . I didn't know what to say! I was trying to like process it all and stuff, then you kind of fell . . ."

"I fell? Did – did that bloody frog see it?"

"Dude, is that all you care about? That doesn't matter! What matters is that I dragged you upstairs totally unconscious! You're sick, Artie . . . like you're so sick that you could have died or something! Francis went to fetch Yao, and Yao was all like 'yeah, we'll do some tests and stuff to make sure he's okay', but then it was like 'well, that still won't cure his eating disorder', so you have to go for therapy and stuff, and I don't know! I'm scared! I don't want you to die, but I don't know what to do to make it better! I want to help, but I don't know how!"

"My, that's a lot of information to digest in fifteen seconds."

Arthur pulled his hands away from Alfred and sat upright. It was only a little gesture – one that normally wouldn't have bothered Alfred all that much – but for some reason it left Alfred feeling a little bereft. He didn't like how empty his hands felt, how disconnected he felt from Britain, but he knew that England probably just wanted to sit up for himself and not be forced to lie in bed during a really kick-ass party! It just felt kind of weird. Britain _always _held him when he was sad growing up, so now that Britain didn't want to be held Alfred didn't know what to do. How else was he supposed to comfort Arthur?

"It's a lot for me too, you know," Alfred said, almost childishly.

He pulled himself up to sit next to Arthur, just as Arthur swung his legs around over the side of the bed. The two sat side by side, but it still felt as if they were worlds apart, almost as if they were two strangers who just happened to meet under the worst of circumstances. Alfred leaned backwards on his hands and stared up awkwardly at the ceiling above him, whilst Arthur hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. Alfred wanted to say something, but he had no idea what.

The noise of the party below was a little distracting, but it kind of made Alfred feel a little better for hearing it. It was getting late and it sounded like Germany was trying to get some of the louder nations to return to their homes or hotel rooms, whilst China shouted occasionally that he didn't have the time to be harried by his siblings as he had work to do. There was Prussia still singing some song about how awesome he was, and he could hear Romano outside somewhere screaming at Spain that he didn't want to be hugged and molested in some 'black-pudding eating bastard's' garden. If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend that everything was normal.

"You said you were under pressure and stuff," America said with a slightly broken tone. "You said that you didn't know who you were and that everyone hated you no matter what you did, that you felt as if you had no control over your life. I mean, I guess I can kind of get some of that, because I felt powerless at one point too, and there was a lot of pressure being your little brother!"

"I never expected anything from you, Alfred! How can you say that –?"

"Dude! I never said that _you _pressured me, just that I _felt _under pressure. Man, you were so awesome! You were the British Empire! I totally worshipped you! Every time I did anything I was like 'oh my god, this better make Britain proud of me, or something' or like 'this is way uncool, Britain will be so disappointed'! I guess I didn't realise you were thinking the same things about me; like that you had to live up to my expectations too. Weird, huh? We both felt the same thing!"

"You never bloody said anything, you prat."

"Well, how could I?"

Alfred smiled sadly and adjusted his glasses . . .

'_Mr Britain, are you okay?'_

_He looked so sad today. It always made Alfred feel a little sad too, because it was always a bad feeling to feel all alone. Alfred had his bunny rabbit to keep him company, but the funny blond man didn't seem to have anyone, and everyone was kind of mean to him and ignored him. Alfred had only met him a few times, but he wondered if he could make him happy the way Mr Bunny made him happy! _

_He crawled over to Britain – kneeled on the ground with head on his knees – and gave him a big hug. That was what you were supposed to do, wasn't it? Hugs made everything better! They were all warm and nice and made you happy! It seemed to work, because Mr Britain seemed to smile and his tears went away and he at once sat cross-legged on the floor and scooped America up into his arms. It felt nice to be hugged back. It always felt safe in Britain's arms! He was so big that he wrapped America up completely, he covered him like a blanket . . . nothing could hurt America with England holding him like that! _

_One day he would hold England like that, too, so that England would know that he was safe as well. If the grumpy Briton could protect him, then he would protect Britain too! It was always sad to see him sad, so he would make sure that Britain was never sad again! He would promise himself! He would promise!_

'_You always know just how to cheer me up, America,' Britain said kindly._

'_I'll always be there to cheer you up, Mr Britain!'_

'_I know lad, I know.'_

"I made a promise to you . . ."

Alfred took his glasses off and wiped the lens with his sleeve. It was a pretty bad habit, one that Arthur always chastised him for, but it gave him a sort of welcome distraction and stopped him from having to look into those green and fearful eyes. He couldn't bear to look at Britain! He felt angry with himself for having failed Arthur, angry at Arthur for having let thing get so far, and scared . . . scared he might _lose _Arthur. He was sad, scared, angry, annoyed . . . he was guilty too, because all that mattered right now was Arthur, but instead Alfred was feeling sorry for himself. He was feeling bad for himself when he should have been feeling bad for Arthur!

"I promised you that I'd always be there for you, Artie!" Alfred said. "I know that I broke that promise what with the war and all, but that doesn't mean that the problem was you! I – I don't get this . . . I don't get why you think you're so worthless! You said it's all about control and stuff, but personally it's like you're trying to _punish _yourself, or worse . . . punish _me_."

"Alfred, I –"

"Don't say anything, Arthur, you don't need to." Alfred put his glasses back on and turned to look at Alfred with a sad smile. "I know you aren't doing this to spite me, but it kind of _feels _that way, you know? Then I guess I feel like I failed you too, because I'm meant to be the hero, but how can I be the hero when you're all sick and stuff! I – I guess I'm making this all about me, which Matthew keeps telling me I shouldn't, but . . . you're not _alone_, Artie! The reason I feel all this crap is because _you're not alone_! I care about you, bro. So I want to help you."

Arthur looked rather annoyed for a split second. He seemed flustered and uncomfortable, almost as if he weren't sure what to say or how to act, but there was one thing that Alfred noticed: Arthur wouldn't look at him! He seemed to stare off to the side as if scared to look at Alfred, but Alfred couldn't understand why. It was like he didn't want help or something, or maybe it was just that he didn't want help from _Alfred_. Alfred knew that he hadn't reacted well, but . . . he had just been surprised!

Alfred knew that he had made Arthur feel like he didn't care, but . . . it was difficult. This wasn't about him, he got that, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he did or from needing to talk to someone. Then again, he could talk to Mattie or Kiku if he needed to, but whom could Arthur talk to? Did Arthur ever talk to anyone about his feelings? Now that Alfred thought about it, he had never seen Arthur discuss his feelings with anyone, aside from temper tantrums and sulks . . . just how long had Arthur been hiding this? Just what else could he be hiding? Alfred just wanted to make everything better somehow . . . somehow . . .

"I'm sorry I made you feel that way," Arthur said in a hushed voice. "I just . . . I've been dealing with this for so long. It feels almost . . . normal now. I don't know _how _to feel any differently. I don't know how to make this go away."

"Well, why don't we figure something out together?"

Alfred put his hand upon Arthur's with a smile.

It was a simple and innocent enough gesture, but it felt a bit weird considering. The two of them just weren't the emotional or intimate sort . . . they bonded well and enjoyed each other's company, but Alfred was well aware that any time Arthur showed any emotional vulnerability that Alfred had a tendency to shoot him down. It wasn't that they couldn't _trust _one another, but just that . . . well . . . the girly, emotional stuff was just _awkward_!

Arthur's hand felt small and cold under his touch. It was weird for Alfred, because this was exactly the kind of gesture he saw between Austria and Hungary or Germany and Italy, but – then again – Greece and Spain were physically affectionate with just about everyone, and they didn't seem to make it weird at all. How did they manage it? Alfred was all for hugs and punches and handshakes, but to _hold _someone's hand like that . . . Arthur better appreciate it! It just . . . it didn't feel right for some reason, and he couldn't help but think about how thin those fingers felt or how cold that skin was . . . yet it was nice. It was nice comforting Arthur . . .

Arthur suddenly blushed and snatched away his hand as if it has been burned. It seemed a stupid action to Alfred, because he had already allowed the touching for a rather long moment, so to suddenly pull his hand away seemed a bit random, so Alfred just rolled his eyes and folded his arms. Arthur, however, grasped his left hand with his right, holding it in an almost fragile and frightened way. Well, at the very least, at least he was actually _looking _at Alfred now.

"Y-you idiot! You can't just say things like that!"

"Whatever, you're such a pervert! Look, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm here for you. Er, and China and Hong Kong and France are here for you too . . . and Matthew. Huh, a lot of people are here for you! See, you're totally not alone! You have friends and stuff, and we love you because of you, not because of how much you weigh!"

"I-I'm not just going to open up . . . I don't think I could bear it right now to even try. I'm far too used to ridicule to know better than to open up to you bloody lot, and even if I did, what would be the point?"

"I'm not going anywhere, you know that right?"

Alfred turned and gave Arthur a hard stare.

It seemed that Arthur understood at last. He drew in a sharp intake of breath and made to speak, but cut himself off before he could complete a single word, and the way he looked was a lot like a deer caught in the headlights. Arthur seemed a little pale, but even though he seemed shocked . . . scared even . . . he kept looking at Alfred and refused to look away. It was like he was _daring _Alfred to change his mind. It was like he was _waiting _for Alfred to back out of his promise. Alfred wouldn't let him worry! It was his chance to be England's hero!

"You can open up to me!" Alfred chirped. "You might as well . . . I'm not going anywhere, so you can either open up to the awesome hero, or like just be miserable and stuff! I'm staying here until you're all better! Even then you won't be rid of me!"

"That isn't much of an incentive . . ."

"It's awesome and you know it! Come on, Artie! We'll do this together!"

"Well, I suppose I haven't really much choice now, do I?"

Arthur sighed and stood up in a rather slow and delicate manner. He was busy brushing himself down when Alfred stood up in a panicked hurry, and the look he shot Alfred was so dark that the young American almost backed down. The truth was that he was a little afraid that Arthur would fall over or something, so he wanted to be there to catch him . . . he wouldn't let Arthur hit the ground this time around! Still, Arthur didn't seem to be amused that Alfred was fussing over him . . .

The older man huffed loudly and straightened his jacket as he took a step forward. He swayed a little and stumbled on his feet, which forced him to take a hold of Alfred's arm, and – in embarrassment – blush a little at the sudden reliance on someone he had never expected to rely upon. It seemed that he was still really light-headed, which worried Alfred. What would Yao say? Would those kinds of symptoms go away if Arthur just ate something? _Could _Arthur just eat something? Alfred hadn't really thought too much about how he would make this all better, or how long it would take for Arthur to recover, but now that he thought about it he couldn't help but worry.

"J-just don't expect me to thank you, alright!" Arthur snapped, as he snatched his arm away from Alfred. "I'd have been fine even if you didn't help me!"

"Ha! Of course not!"

"Still, thank you . . . even if you _are_ a prat."

Alfred laughed loudly and slapped Arthur hard on his back. The Briton stumbled again, but as he glared at Alfred the younger man realised that the music downstairs had been turned off and that Ludwig had begun to loudly shout orders at everyone. It seemed the party was over, which meant – at the very least – that Arthur would get some rest. Alfred wasn't sure what he was taking credit for when he spoke next, but he said what he said with the utmost sincerity regardless:

"Your welcome!"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thank you very much to "Purestrongpoem", "Amy Kitty Katz", and "Selia" for your reviews :) It really means a lot to me :)

**Chapter Seven**

'_Give that back_!'

Mathieu tried to count to ten.

It had been a difficult few weeks, what with work meetings and social gatherings, and – quite frankly – he was exhausted. It felt as if every meeting had dragged on for far longer than it should, so much so that even in his spare time he had been forced to write reports and conduct research, and then – just when he thought he was safe from it all – he would be dragged into some sort of compulsory social gathering. It just didn't seem to end!

All Mathieu wanted was to curl up in his favourite hooded top, with a cup of steaming cocoa in hand, and watch the latest hockey match on television. He just wanted a little time to himself to recuperate his mind and soul. There would be a seven and a half hour flight back to Quebec in a few days time, followed by jet-lag and an insane amount of correspondence to catch up with, he just wanted a few moments to himself. That wasn't so bad, was it? They always said 'no man is in greater need of a vacation than the one who has just taken one', but this could hardly be considered a vacation at all. If anything is was just a slow form of torture.

'_Dude, why should I? These things are way broke anyway.'_

'_I'll have you know that they work perfectly fine! Now give it bloody back!'_

'_Seriously? You've got to be kidding me! Like what's a "stone"?'_

Mathieu rubbed his eyes sleepily and sat down on the top of the staircase. It was getting late at night, and he hadn't long been back from time spent with Ivan and the Baltic States. It had been a nice meeting, albeit a little unnerving, and somehow it had ended up with a 'friendly' hockey match between the two large nations. They were forced to improvise in terms of equipment, just because Britain didn't really play hockey . . . but a couple of brooms, an overripe apple, and four traffic cones later soon found them with a smashed window and bits of apple all over the guestroom carpet.

It seemed that Arthur hadn't noticed yet. That was probably because the guestroom in question was so rarely used by the Englishman, but with a little help of tape and cardboard Mathieu had managed to block off the window. He'd also left a note in crayon with 'sorry, bro, just take the cost off from the money you owe me' taped upon the glass above. If he were lucky then this would just blow over as another fight between Alfred and Arthur and Mathieu could go about business as usual . . .

Still, he really wanted some time to himself. He knew that Arthur was sick – he understood that, he honestly did – but it had felt as if in the past two weeks that Alfred was just taking things much too far. He was taking this hero thing far too seriously. Yao could have probably helped Arthur without any outside interference, and if Arthur needed company then Francis could have fulfilled that role, but Alfred insisted on getting involved regardless. It was _nice _of him, but at the same time it was just so unnecessary. He wondered how long Alfred planned on staying with Arthur.

'_What's a 'stone'? It's about half the size of your pissing ego!'_

'_Hey! You suck! I'm just trying to help you, but no, you're in here trying to like throw up or something! It totally blows dude! I'm just trying to make sure that you're okay, but instead you're blowing chunks into the sink!'_

'_You idiot! Idiot, idiot, idiot! I came in here to weigh myself, that's all!'_

'_Well, why did you lock the door?'_

'_My weight is a private thing! Plus I needed to use the loo whilst I was in here! Oh, and maybe I just didn't want _your _fat-ass walking in and peering over my shoulder at what I weighed! Now give it back!'_

'_So you weren't throwing up?'_

Mathieu heard something smash loudly from within the bathroom. It sounded like porcelain or something ceramic, so he assumed that it was probably the soap-dish or the cup used for rinsing out one's mouth. Whatever it was it caused Alfred to gasp loudly in his typical 'indignation' response, which was then followed by him letting out a rather annoyed sound between a sound of disgust and that of a teenage throat clearing. If Mathieu turned his head _just slightly _he could see bits of white ceramics in the corridor and wooden chips from where the door had been kicked in.

'_I may as well be a prisoner in my own home! I can't even use my bleeding _bathroom_ without you breaking down the door! You want to know why I didn't answer? I was on the loo, you bastard!'_

'_Well, how was I meant to -?'_

'_Then you have the nerve to accuse me of something I haven't even done, as – as if you don't even _trust _me, which makes me wonder . . . what's the point in me even trying? If you're just going to accuse me of moving onto bulimia, what's the point in even _trying _to eat more? Alfred . . . you have _ten seconds _to give them back.'_

There was a sound from somewhere downstairs. It sounded like the front door clicking closed and someone coming in from a long night, and that in itself was pretty odd, because usually Arthur would be waiting at the door to accost the latecomer in question. Alfred would get lectured on staying out too late, whereas Mathieu would get a confused look and a question on where he had been, and Francis would usually get the door quickly bolted upon him.

Mathieu could hear keys clicking in a bowl, followed by a long sigh and a coat being pulled off and placed on the coat-rack, and finally he heard the soft and delicate footsteps of a man trying to sneak in and failing miserably. Francis just seemed to lack the skills that Arthur did when it came to sneaking around. He seemed to hum loudly songs to himself that Mathieu vaguely remembered from his youth, then stop at every mirror to blow kisses to himself and slur something in French, and at one point – one terrifying point – Mathieu was sure he heard him dancing with a coat-stand.

'_Okay, _fine_, you weren't throwing up, but I'm not giving these back!'_

'_Right, if that's the way you want it lad; ten, nine, eight –'_

Francis finally popped around the corner and saw Mathieu. He didn't seem to question why the young Canadian was sitting alone on the top of the staircase, or even why he seemed so utterly exhausted and on the verge of falling asleep, and he didn't even seem to wonder why he was nursing a cup of cocoa like it was the greatest medicine on the Earth. He just hummed his little tune, jumping up the stairs with grace and poise as if he were dancing his way up them, before he reached the top step and leaned down to place a kiss on Mathieu's head.

"Ah, my darling Mathieu! _Alouette, je te plumerai!"_

"_Je te plumerai la tête._ You're back late."

"_Oui_, I can not say why! _Alors_, you are too young to know."

It was always a comfort seeing Francis, rather like the feeling of going home at the end of a long day, and every time he was with Francis he felt that same sense of nostalgia and safety. Sure, there were times that Mathieu felt a little disheartened by his old mentor, but not because Francis was a bad _person_, but simply because that as Mathieu grew older he realised that he was merely a bad _role model_. He wondered how he had never noticed it before. Now that he was an adult the smell of perfume and the sight of lipstick upon his collar were rather obvious, almost like an old cliché.

Francis threw himself down next to Mathieu and leaned backwards with a great and loud sigh. He seemed to not hear – or perhaps he ignored – the sound of Arthur loudly counting down to five, he even seemed oblivious to the way that Arthur paused for a long while to warn Alfred that he wasn't joking. His long hair flowed naturally behind him, almost seeming like a halo as he smiled an all too innocent smile. It was almost enough to make Mathieu feel as if everything were okay . . .

"So have I missed anything?"

"Er, no, not really. Not as such. Maybe a little?"

"Ah, _je le savais_! When you were a child you would sit on the top of the stairs just like this. You thought that no one would see you, that you could listen in to the world and not be a part of it, but Big Brother always found you!"

"I – I guess I just felt like, if I walked past the bathroom to get to my room, they would see me and I'd be intruding or be forced to get involved . . . maple!"

"Ah, I see, so they are fighting again!"

Mathieu let his head sink with a heavy sigh. It was a relief to have Francis back, someone to mediate and witness the arguments, but at the same time it didn't do anything to stop the fighting in the meantime. He knew that the two other men were prone to bickering and arguments, but it just didn't feel right for them to be arguing at such a sensitive time. Alfred knew that Arthur was sick. Arthur needed understanding and support, not childish accusations and constant surveillance. It was then, as if on cue, that there came a rather loud sound of:

'_Three, two -!'_

'_Yeah, well you shouldn't be weighing yourself like that all the time!'_

'_You can't talk, you git! You weigh yourself all the bloody time!'_

'_Then I have more use for these than you do, right?'_

'_You hypocrite! Idiot!'_

Francis stood up rather swiftly. It startled Mathieu a little, because so rarely did the older Frenchman ever show a serious side or demonstrate an ability to act quickly, but – then again – it was even more rare to see Alfred and Arthur argue so intently. There was a side to Francis that they hardly saw, a side of great empathy and understanding, a side that drove him to help those around him and to grieve for a lost love centuries after the fact. It was why Mathieu respected him.

They hurt for Arthur. _Alfred _hurt for Arthur, and yet what hurt the most was how the two men hurt _each other_ whilst trying to _help _one another. Arthur wanted to get better, he truly did, but he seemed to be struggling with his emotions, something that he felt he needed to hide in order to _protect _Alfred. Alfred, meanwhile, wanted to feel useful and felt frustrated by Arthur's lack of communication, so he had taken to fussing over him and desperately trying to take control over him and the situation, which – to say the least – Arthur objected to . . . Mathieu had to wonder how two men so similar could antagonise each other so much.

"I think we should intervene, _non_?"

"Sure," Mathieu said.

Mathieu put his cocoa down beside the baluster and reached up a hand towards Francis. The older man took a hold of him with a firm grip, then helped to pull him up onto his feet, where he gave a warm and understanding smile. It was a rather reassuring expression. It made Mathieu feel safe and secure, as if the fighting weren't even taking place, as if the only world were the world shared between Mathieu and his mentor, but then Francis took a firm hold of his arm . . .

He thought at first that the Frenchman wanted to embrace him, especially the way the soft fingers rubbed his upper arm and the other hand came to take a hold of his shoulder, almost as if he wanted to hug him to let him know that everything would be okay. His gentle smile moved only slightly, just enough to give a subtly dangerous gleam to his blue eyes, and – for some reason – it made Mathieu feel a little awkward. It wasn't quite Francis' look that he wore before his attempts at 'skin-ship' with people, but it was still disconcerting and one he had never really wore around Mathieu before, so that he –

"M-maple!"

The Canadian didn't hear the maniacal laughter until _after_ he had been pushed firmly down the upper corridor. He stumbled over his feet, almost tripping over himself as he found himself thrust forward, and when he eventually managed to regain his balance – after very nearly falling flat on his face – he found himself staring straight into the bathroom with an expression of embarrassment. He hadn't meant to make himself known to the two fighting men, but now they saw him! Not only that, but they were both staring right at him! They were looking at him!

"Matthew?" Arthur asked. "What are you doing up so late?"

"Yeah, Bro," Alfred continued, "you should go back to sleep. I got this!"

"You haven't bloody 'got' anything! Now give that back!"

Arthur stood rather aggressively in the middle of the bathroom. He looked surprisingly scary for a man in striped pyjamas and with bed-hair, he even managed to wield the toothbrush in his hand rather like a weapon, making him seem a little intimidating given the circumstances. He stood somewhere near to the bathtub, with legs apart and arms flailing rather manically, whilst Alfred pouted near to the sink with arms folded across his chest . . . a pair of scales in his hold.

Mathieu sincerely hoped that his brother didn't plan to take the scales away. There was only one bathroom for the entire house, excluding a small water closet downstairs, and although Mathieu wasn't too weight conscious he did like to get a rough number every so often. There was also the fact that he didn't think Arthur deserved to be thrown into the deep end in regards to his recovery. Yao already had him on a food schedule and had asked him to also keep a food diary, and Arthur was also engaged in therapy, but to take away his scales – the one thing he depended upon for a sense of peace of mind – seemed to be a step too far.

It seemed like his brother wasn't aware of what he was doing, because he simply stood there so innocently as he pouted like a child. He was dressed in what was one of Mathieu's old t-shirts and a pair of red boxer-shorts, and the way he had neglected his glasses told Mathieu that the loud and obnoxious man had either just woken up or had been about to fall asleep. It wasn't unusual for Francis to be the most overdressed of the four of them, but this felt a little ridiculous, so much so that just _looking _at Arthur and Alfred felt exhausting.

"M-maple hockey! I'm so sorry, but I –"

"_Sacré bleu! _What have you both done to this bathroom?"

Francis pushed in front of Mathieu and gestured wildly to the mess all around them. The woodchips and shards of porcelain were scattered all about, but it was made worse by the sheer sight of water absolutely all over the white tiled floor and clothes from the hamper flung everywhere. It looked as if they had been throwing just about everything within reach for a good while. Mathieu could believe it. He worried about who would be left to clean it all up, because it certainly wouldn't be Alfred.

"That bastard stole my scales!"

"Ugh!" Alfred looked affronted and leaned forward with a scowl. "I'm just worried about you, Artie! He came in here and locked the door and was like taking ages and stuff, what was I _supposed _to think? He doesn't need this scale anyway!"

"I'm supposed to get my body weight up to a healthy level! How the bloody hell can I do that unless I have scales to weigh myself with?"

"You shouldn't _need _the scale though! Why can't you just look in the mirror or something? Like why define your self-worth by a number?" Alfred sighed and looked to Mathieu for some support. "Back me up, Bro! Like if you're happy with what you look like and think you're handsome and stuff, why does it matter if the number doesn't quite match, you know?"

"S-says you! You weigh yourself every two seconds!"

Alfred seemed to think about this for a long moment. He looked at the metal scales in his hands and seemed to sadden slightly, almost as if he couldn't quite believe what they seemed to mean to Arthur . . . what they had meant to _himself_. They all knew about Alfred's crazy dieting schemes, his excessive exercising, and even his obsessive self-weighing, and – whilst he didn't have a disorder like Arthur – it had to be giving those like Arthur a bad self-image. Mathieu had to admit it made even him feel bad at times. It was hard _not _to feel self-conscious when someone as handsome as Alfred seemed to think that he was overweight.

The American boy pouted a little and then put the scales back down upon the floor, down by the sink where they had been before this whole debacle began. It seemed that Arthur and Francis hadn't expected that at all. Francis at once hummed loudly in curiosity and leaned into the bathroom, hands on the doorframe for balance, for a better view. Arthur, meanwhile, blushed a little and softened his expression as he tried to desperately look angry, when – in actual fact – he was just confused.

"Yeah," Alfred muttered, "well, maybe it's time I stopped."

"Yes, but maybe I _can't stop_ from disliking what I see in the mirror."

"Huh? Well, why don't you tell me, Art? I want to know. I want to know exactly what you feel so that I can help you. I promised you, didn't I? I promised I would never ever leave your side! You open up to Yao and Francis . . . why not me?"

"Go on, Arthur," Francis whispered. "Just speak your mind!"

"I hate you both so much," Arthur snapped.

Mathieu had to smile as he saw the expression on Arthur's face. He seemed to be seriously considering what Alfred just said, caught between wanting to believe it and afraid to trust who had said it. It was clear that he wanted to believe it, clear that he wanted to open up, but he was afraid of being hurt. He could only hope that Alfred wasn't too dense to understand how important these moments were, that he needed to accept and acknowledge everything Arthur said without judgement. He had faith in his brother's kind heart, but he was also aware that Alfred didn't exactly pay attention to what he said, let alone what other's said.

"It's just that the scales gives me an objective goal," Arthur admitted shyly. "If I were to go merely on what I look think I look like . . . I would starve to death, Alfred, lad! I – I hate what I see every time I see it. I – I need to get up to nine stone . . . I'll still be slightly underweight, but not dangerously so . . . but Yao says it's enough for now. S-so give don't take them away again!"

Alfred bowed his head and went to shove his hands into his pockets, but – forgetting he _had _no pockets – he settled for instead putting his hands on his hips. He seemed genuinely embarrassed, but the small smirk on his face let Mathieu know that he was insanely thrilled Arthur had opened up to him, even if it were only a little. Arthur wasn't really one to be emotional or reveal how he felt, that he would reveal something so personal – something so secret – was a _huge _step forward.

It seemed that Francis was able to understand what was going on, and Mathieu was thankful that he was quicker at detecting the atmosphere than some of the others, because it meant that – when he was so inclined – he was able to act perfectly. Mathieu suspected that Arthur wouldn't open up properly with the Frenchman present, no matter how well they seemed to know one another, and he would also probably forget that Mathieu was even present, unless he already had. If Francis left then there wouldn't be any _real _obstacles between Alfred and Arthur, and now that they seemed to have the whole fight out their system they had no real reason _not _to talk to one another in an open and mature way.

"Well," Francis said kindly, "it is time for me to turn in for the night. _Bonne nuit_!"

"Oh, sod off, you pathetic frog!"

Francis blew a kiss and spun around and danced down the hallway. He seemed happy today, too happy to mediate any potential arguments and too happy to stay still, and the way he spun and twirled seemed to make him seem as if he were dancing upon the very air itself. He seemed to take his time in heading to the guestroom, almost as if every sight and sound were a type of music to dance and move to, and Mathieu felt inspired by him. He hoped to be like him one day. He hoped to be as carefree.

"Bloody pillock."

"Dude, it's France, what do you expect?" Alfred waved a hand as if wafting away a bad smell from the bathroom. "Anyway, I'm fed up of worrying about you all the time, dude! I feel so helpless! Okay, so it's your fight, I get that, and I'm like totally in your corner! Just, there has to be _something _I can do to help! I just feel so useless. It's like you're trying to do this all alone and it makes me kind of sad . . .

"You used to look after me all the time as a kid, so I just want to pay you back, you know? Okay, that's a lie, man. I don't want to help you because I _owe _you, but . . . well . . . ah, _I hate you_! Don't make me say it! You know what I mean, right? Right? It's like it's _you _and I don't want _you_ to be all hurt and stuff, but then there's nothing I can do to make it better so like I try to take control and make it better, but that just makes it worse, so then I feel worse because you feel worse! I like . . . I don't _hate_ you. You're my hero dude, alright! You're my hero and I like . . . love you . . . sort of . . . I guess . . .

"Ah! Whatever, man! Anyway, what I'm _saying_ is that maybe the problem isn't just you, maybe it's me too! I don't set the best example or anything, plus I know I say stuff that sucks at times, and I am kind of hypocritical with my weight, so . . . I don't know. Why don't I prove I have your back? Yeah! That's it! I'm on your side, Bro! We'll do this together! The hero _always _sets a good example, so I will too! I'll keep to a food schedule, and I'll only weigh myself once a week _with _you, and I'll totally eat healthy! It'll be way awesome!"

"_You'll_ eat healthy?"

"Yeah! Burgers are healthy right? Bread bun, meat patty, tomato, and cheese . . . that's like _four _of the five food groups right there! I'm going to be the best example ever and do everything you do! I'll be right by your side! So what do you say? Let's do this thing together, Artie! I got your back and you got mine!"

"W-well, that's surprisingly kind of -"

'Alors! _Who the hell broke my window? _Ce monstre imprudent!'

_Oh crap _. . .

Mathieu had completely forgotten that Francis was staying in the guestroom. He rather hoped that the older blond would be too occupied with tidying up the mess to march straight away to Alfred to demand repayment, but frankly he would have understood if Francis had decided to do just that. Luckily his mentor was the sensitive and understanding sort, so he would probably save the tantrums and violent threats until this whole mess had been resolved . . . even it that meant waking Alfred up in the middle of the night to do it.

Arthur gave a slightly confused expression at the loud exclamation, but – rather luckily – he seemed content to ignore it for now. He probably assumed that Francis was just being melodramatic or idiotic, or that – had anything actually been broken – Alfred would have told him all about it, because usually Alfred was the cause of broken objects. It was just a relief that the older man wouldn't actually realise his window was broken for quite a while.

It was starting to get rather cold, a fact that Alfred seemed to notice judging from how he began to hop from foot to foot, and considering that he was barely dressed he must have surely felt it more than most. He seemed adamant on hiding his coldness, almost as if he didn't want Arthur to see any weakness in him or to trivialise Arthur's pain with his own discomfort. It didn't matter how sick Arthur was – how annoyed he might be at Alfred for his childish reaction – he would always be Arthur, and that was made obvious by the way he made to grab a nearby dressing gown. He lifted it from a hook upon the door and threw it straight at Alfred.

It was just a simple black affair, made from a similar material to Arthur's own pyjamas, and yet it clearly wasn't Alfred's style at all. Still, the American man blushed and draped it over his shoulders like a cape. It would keep him warm at the very least, protect him from the British nights, but it seemed like an incredibly uncomfortable act on Arthur's part. He usually refrained from kind gestures towards Alfred, usually because of the risk of rejection involved, but it seemed that he had grown recently, that he had learned to open up to Alfred . . .

"D-don't think I care! It's just your shivering annoys me, you prat!"

_Or maybe not . . . _

"Thanks, Artie. Er, hey, say, do you want me to weigh myself? Like if we're going to do this together than that means we should weigh ourselves together, right? If it's going to make you self-conscious or anything, that is."

"N-no, I would rather not, at least not tonight at least. I didn't actually get to look down at the number before you barged in like some idiotic buffoon . . . now that I think about it I'm a little scared about how much I actually weigh. Aha! I – I know that's rather silly, but I just feel . . ."

"Happy?"

"_Afraid_," Arthur said coldly.

He shot Alfred a rather dark look. It was clear that he objected to 'happy' as a term to sum up his feelings, and perhaps rather justifiably so, because it was still far too early into treatment for Arthur to feel even close to 'happy', but – perhaps – with support he would eventually reach a place where he _could _be happy. Still, that Arthur could be honest and open with his feelings – to actually _admit _to fear – was a huge step forward, especially when it was _Alfred _he was admitting those feelings to. Mathieu smiled to himself and began to pick up the wood splinters and pieces of porcelain from the corridor. He hoped this boded well.

"What I am _trying _to tell you, Alfred, is that I don't feel the need to look right now. I don't want to know what that number is . . . I don't want to feel a failure if it's too high, because I don't want to feel fat, but then if it's too low . . . it's a lot to feel. Not that I expect someone like _you _to understand that. You have the emotional depth of a puddle. It's just – now I've had time to _think _about it – I'm too scared to do it."

"Whoa! Really? Aren't you totally curious about whether you've gained or lost? I hate not knowing what I weigh! Like if I gain too much I feel like a total lard-ass, and I had a ton of burgers today so I totally know I gained a pound!"

"Ah, is that why you weigh yourself all the time?"

"Er, kind of?"

Arthur's expression suddenly turned rather devilish. His green eyes narrowed into rather dangerous slits and his smile turned up in a somewhat indescribable way, so much so that Mathieu was reminded of the old pirate from the days of yore, that violent man who knew what he wanted and would do anything to get it. Clearly he had heard something that pleased him, something he could use against Alfred. Mathieu sensed some sort of prank appearing.

The older man reached down for the scales and moved them into a nearby cupboard, one that – until then – had held nothing but spare linens and old towels, and once the scales were inside he locked the door and removed the key. Mathieu had always wondered why the linen cupboards, pantries, and various wardrobes had locks upon them, but it seemed to merely be a design quirk to the renovated Tudor house, but with only Arthur – for the most part – living in the house there was rarely ever a need to lock the cupboards, let alone remove the keys. That he had decided to _hide_ the key in his pyjama pocket made it all the more suspicious.

"Well, that settles it then! If we're doing this 'together' then that means if _I _don't weigh myself then _you_ can't either, and there's nothing better than seeing _you _suffer." Arthur let out a rather evil, yet fearful, laugh. "I don't think I'll weigh myself until next week, or even the week after!"

"Y-you're supposed to weigh yourself once a week, you jerk! You're only doing this because you're too afraid to know what you weigh, I'm onto you, Britain!"

"I don't know what you're talking about! I'm going to bed!"

"What? Hey! Wait for me!"

Mathieu jumped out of the way as Arthur stormed past him, with Alfred in tow. Arthur seemed rather annoyed, enough that he was moving bent forward in anger and with a scowl on his face, but – at the same time – he couldn't help but smirk dangerously, almost as if he were enjoying being the centre of Alfred's world. Alfred seemed to wear a similarly conflicted expression, with his cheeks puffed out in irritation whilst his eyes and mouth seemed to pull into a conceited look of triumph. They were an odd pair, but maybe they would be good for one another.

"Hey, I said wait, man! You can't go to bed without me!"

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. It seemed that Alfred hadn't expected that and he crashed hard into the man in front of him, so much so that he was forced to rub his nose sorely that smashed into the blond man's head. Mathieu chuckled to himself as he felt Kumajiro brush up against his leg, and when he reached down to pet the white bear he saw Arthur spin around with a _very _red face and a livid expression.

"W-what? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm like totally worried about you, dude! I want to keep an eye on you, but like . . . I don't know . . . your house is _way _scary! If I didn't know any better I'd swear I've been seeing those imaginary friends of yours! Can't we just share a bed this once? If I'd seen a scary film you'd totally let me!"

"B-but you _haven't _seen a scary film! You're just being a brat!"

"Nah-uh! Please, Bro? It's too cold in my room!"

"I – well – it's just –"

Arthur blushed and stuttered as he raised a finger to scratch at his chin it thought. Mathieu could only imagine just what the older man was thinking, he was likely rather irritated by the implications of what such a request meant, pondering if Alfred even knew what he were asking, but – despite his brother's usual mixed signals – it was something more than that. There was _fear _in those green eyes of Arthur's. There was an actual and genuine _fear_.

It was only when Mathieu began rubbing the soft fur of his bear's ears, smiling at how those cute little whiskers wrinkled in enjoyment, that he caught – from the corner of his eye – the way that Arthur's left hand moved to his stomach. It was barely noticeable, only a soft touch with just his fingertips, but it was enough to show what the man was _really _thinking. Mathieu gave a sad smile and wondered if Alfred noticed at all. No, of course he hadn't, but no doubt it was completely at the forefront of Arthur's mind . . . he was still self-conscious about his weight, and it was one thing to begin opening up about his feelings to Yao in therapy, but to let Alfred lie next to him as he slept? Mathieu could just picture what was going on in Arthur's mind:

_What if he rolls over and his arm falls on me, what if he feels how thin I am . . . what if my shirt moves in my sleep and he sees how prominent my ribs are . . . what if he doesn't notice how much weight I've gained, how hard I've worked on regaining some of my former weight . . . worse . . . what if he thinks I'm _fat_?_

Mathieu had been in the room once for one of his therapy sessions. It wasn't as if he were meant to be there, or even that he was spying or sneaking, simply that Yao and Arthur hadn't noticed him present and he couldn't leave without them discovering him. It had been a strange revelation to the young Canadian. He hadn't thought that it could be possible to worry about being too fat and to _also _worry about being too thin, but it seemed that Arthur did. He did!

Arthur didn't want to be 'fat', even just the thought of his ideal weight made him feel 'overweight', and the idea of losing that control over his diet was terrifying to him. He wanted to be 'attractive' as that was the only sense of worth he had, plus he felt afraid that his appearance was directly tied to how the other nations saw him. On the flipside he no longer wanted to be too 'thin', because he knew the repercussions of this upon his health, and he knew how much Alfred in particular worried. He wanted to be healthy for Alfred. He wanted to be healthy for _himself_, but being healthy to Arthur meant being 'overweight', and so it was a difficult challenge to overcome.

"Come on, Artie," Alfred whined. "You get cold so easily! Ha, although I guess now it kind of makes sense why, huh? You won't get cold with the hero beside you keeping you warm! You know you want to!"

"You – you idiot! Do you have any idea how you sound?"

"Yeah, awesome! Come on, I'm sleepy!"

"Idiot!"

Arthur blushed again and this time leaned in close to Alfred, almost as if to try and gauge his motives and reasoning, but Alfred merely laughed in his rather hyperactive and childish manner. The loud American slapped a hand on Arthur's back and began to steer him towards the master bedroom, almost as if he hadn't any consideration about how such a thing looked at all. No wonder they were described as having 'lovers quarrels' and 'releasing sexual tensions' so often . . . really, Mathieu would need to have a word with Alfred, if he could.

"Fine!" Arthur slapped Alfred's hand away and flung open the bedroom door with a loud slam, which caused Francis to loudly swear in French from his room down the hallway. "You better not make this a bleeding habit though!"

"No way! Would I ever do a thing like that?"

"Yes, you bloody well would!"

Mathieu smiled and let out a soft laugh as he saw the two disappear behind closed doors. He was sure that he could just about make out loud arguing, Alfred making jokes about not trying anything and Arthur screaming at him not to hog the duvet, but – all in all – they seemed to quieten down rather quickly. The sounds of Francis, Arthur and Alfred died down into an eerie and yet peaceful silence. It was a rather sad feeling for Mathieu, because as much as he loved those quiet moments he knew that it would be the fighting and bickering he missed most of all when he was back in the great expanses of Canada. He liked being a part of a family.

He looked at the mess by his side and gave a long sigh, because – frankly – he wasn't sure how he would be able to mend the lock on his own. He wondered if he could call upon Ivan, because his Cuban friend had already returned home, but when he thought about Alfred waking up in the night and finding Ivan with tools fixing a lock in Arthur's private house, well, it was probably a better idea to fix it himself. So, with a loud slap of his hands upon his legs, he stood up to fix their mess . . .

"Well," Mathieu said to himself, "I guess I ought to clean this up."

"Who are you?"

"_I'm Canada_!"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **This should be the penultimate chapter. Thanks to _'GothicKitty1313'_ and _'Purestrongpoem'_ for your reviews :)

Apologies for the delay . . . writer's block.

**Chapter Eight**

"What's that bloody prat playing at?"

Arthur rolled over in his bed and groaned loudly. It was too early in the morning for such ridiculous antics, even though the music he could hear was oddly catchy and did vaguely remind Arthur of his own punk years. He just couldn't help but feel a little confused about where the sounds were coming from. He couldn't see his alarm in the dark, but he was sure it was most certainly not set. It was a Sunday after all. He wanted his lie-in. He was _owed _a bloody lie-in.

He flailed his arm about the empty side of the bed and searched out the cool pillow beside him, one that he often used to cuddle up to on colder nights. It sometimes felt something of a waste to have a king-sized bed for just one person, but Arthur was a firm believer that every man – no matter how he lived – should be allowed at least one small luxury, and this was his. The bonus to such a luxury was, of course, that the extra pillow could be used to muffle out that _ridiculous _rock music, because if he didn't get some sleep soon he would probably smash the damned record player to bits in a rage. Who was awake at this time of the morning anyway?

'_Artie, you awake, bro?'_

"Oh, you have _got _to be joking . . ."

'_Yo, you have to get up!'_

Arthur rolled over onto his back and hugged his pillow to his chest. If he listened carefully it sounded like the infernal racket of music was coming from the kitchen, and he could tell without even a guess that Alfred's voice was coming from the other side of the bedroom door. He had rather hoped that now everyone had returned home that he would finally – _finally _– have a few moments of quiet to himself, but it seemed to be the opposite. Somehow, without Francis and Matthew around, Alfred seemed to make _more _noise than usual.

Usually when the other nations left it meant that Arthur could return to a rather solitary life as an island nation, where life was – for the most part – quiet and calm. There would occasionally be Peter begging for attention, or Francis phoning up to insult him or yell at him, but apart from that . . . life was quiet. _Quiet_. There were days without endless meetings, days without piles of letters to read and an inbox full of emails to get through, and days without dozens of phone calls to answer and people to see. He could work when he wanted and relax when he needed. If he wanted to work during the holidays then there was no one to stop him, and if he wanted to embroider all day then he could do that too, but somehow with Alfred there . . .

Lately Arthur's evenings were filled with Alfred sleeping beside him, after having watched a 'terrifying' film that scared him too much to sleep, and his afternoons were filled with sounds of 'no, no, no' and 'got you' as Alfred played video-games in the lounge, accompanied with wild and exaggerated hand-movements. In fact, Arthur had caught Alfred once _leaning _to his left to look around a corner on the _tele-screen._ Then there were the long-distance calls to Matthew, the insanely long grocery lists with obscure items like 'Klondike' or 'Hershey's', and – quite honestly – Arthur still couldn't work out what 'OJ' could possibly mean.

'_Dude! I know you hate mornings, but this is lame even for you! Get up!'_

"Since when were you such a bloody morning-bird? Get lost, you twat! I'm sleeping!"

Arthur threw the pillow in his grip at the door, but his aim and throw were terrible. The pillow landed somewhere in the centre of the room with a soft 'plop', a rather embarrassing sound that indicated to Arthur that he had probably just put the pillow in an awfully obstructive place, and that he would probably be unable to sleep anyway with the knowledge that the pillow was there and needed putting back to its usual place. Still, if he got out of bed now then he really _would _be awake.

'_Hey! You're not sleeping if you're talking! Come on! I made breakfast!'_

"I'm not hungry!"

'_You promised to stick to your schedule! Plus I can't eat if you don't eat, and I'm totally starving! I'm going to like die or something if I don't eat! It's been like _hours _since my midnight snack, and I want to pig out!'_

It was difficult to deal with such a loud brat so early in the morning, but – somehow – Arthur managed to just about cope with it. He sat up and rubbed his eyes with a rather tired gesture, and then glared daggers at the door, hoping in a rather childish way that Alfred would simply get bored and go away. This was exactly why he wanted Alfred to go back to the States! It was like having a child again, only one that could open any door he chose and had learned the word 'no'.

That wasn't even the most obnoxious part. The worst part was the music that Alfred felt compelled to blast during long showers from his phone . . . _ 'dude, why do your bathrooms never have electrical sockets? I want to listen to some tunes!' _. . . and the way that any time Arthur sat down to read a book the tele seemed to mysteriously pop on . . . _'like, have you seen this yet? It's so awesome! You're not doing anything, right? You so have to watch this! It'll blow your mind, I swear!' . . . _it was all getting to be a bit too grating. Arthur loved Alfred greatly, but the younger man was impossible to deal with. Well, he was _fine _to deal with, but not so early in the morning before a man had even had his first cup of tea.

He had tried taking Alfred out for a few pints a few nights back, in the hopes that if Alfred gained a terrible hangover that he might just be quiet on the following day, but the whole plan had somehow backfired. Alfred seemed to relish in being legally allowed to drink, to the extent that – to make up for lost time in the States – he drank Arthur under the table, and yet somehow it was _Arthur _that had a hangover the next day. Alfred didn't so much as even gain a headache!

'_Come on, Arthur! I want to eat! I'll tell Yao!'_

"Like that prat is the boss of me," Arthur grumbled. "Fine. I'll eat, but it better be something healthy and low-fat on Yao's list, _nothing _like those awful so-called 'pancakes' you cooked up the other day."

'_Hey! What you call a pancake is nothing more than a crepe! Plus pancakes are awesome breakfast food!'_

"Pancakes are _not_ breakfast! They are dessert!"

'_Just hurry up, bro! Come on!'_

"Fine, just shut it!"

Arthur flung off the covers and climbed out of the bed. The music was still rather loud, so much so that he could only hope that his neighbours wouldn't complain, and for the first time in a long time he missed Francis just a little. The damned frog stood for a lot of things, but he would never have stood for loud American music being blasted from the speakers downstairs so early in the morning. Hell, the two of them had gone to war over far lesser crimes in the past, this – _this _– was almost blasphemy! It just didn't bear thinking about. Weren't Sundays supposed to be sacred?

'_Plus, we got church, bro!'_

Not _that_ sacred though . . .

"No one goes to bloody church here, you prat!"

'Fine, we'll skip church, but I still want to eat! Hurry up! Hey, actually –'

No sooner had Arthur stripped himself of his pyjamas had Alfred rudely decided to open the door to his room and barge in. Arthur wasn't sure what to feel more: shocked at the American's wakeful state and fully dressed attire, or absolutely humiliated that he had just saw him in nothing but his boxers. Frankly, he felt ready to _murder _Alfred. Then again, it was hard to murder him when every ounce of blood he had was currently pooling in his cheeks and his heart felt an absolute horror.

He – he wasn't ready for this! He wasn't ready for someone to see his body, especially when he still felt a little overweight, but what was worse was that it was bloody _Alfred _seeing him in such a state! Alfred! That bastard was the very _last _person he wanted to see him in such a dishevelled state! Oh, it was fine for Francis to see him like that, after all the two men had practically grown up with each other, so it was a given that at _some _point Francis would be required to help a drunken Englishman to bed, or that at _many _points Arthur would walk in on what could only be described as 'French debauchery', but Alfred . . .

Arthur had always wanted to look his best in front of Alfred. He was supposed to be a role model and a 'hero' to the younger nation, and Alfred was the only nation to look at him with unassuming and non-judgemental eyes, the only nation who didn't mock him or belittle him. Even when he told Arthur to 'drop dead', or when he said he would rather be friends with a whale than a man like Arthur, he still did it in a rather adorable and loving way, just like when he was a child!

At any other time Arthur may have become lost in nostalgia, but right then all he felt was on display and vulnerable . . . naked even. He rarely ever showed his body, not even when swimming or during summer, but there he was. He could feel Alfred's gaze upon him. He could feel the worry and the fear that he wasn't quite good enough, that he wasn't quite what Alfred expected. What if he had eaten too much? Was he bloated? He couldn't be fat, could he? Yao had worked with him on his body-perception, frankly he was aware that he was supposedly 'thin', but he didn't _feel _thin, and what if Alfred felt the same . . . it would just validate his fears. It would all be for nothing. Plus he didn't want Alfred to see him at his worst. He wanted the other man to see him at his best, and this . . . this wasn't it.

Arthur stood there in silence. He could feel his heart begin to race as his mouth went dry, and he couldn't help but wish that he were anywhere else in the world but in this very room, standing in front of that very man. He hated feeling so vulnerable. He had once been the great British Empire, he had once stood as a very symbol of power and perfection, and here he was in front of a new superpower and completely dependent upon this man for his self-worth. He had never felt so weak before . . .

"Hey, dude," Alfred said, as he smiled warmly, "you look good! Totally hot!"

Arthur felt his eye twitch a little against his will.

_T-that bastard! _He had the nerve to walk into a room without permission, unannounced, and that – _that _– was the first thing he said? Arthur clenched his hands into tight fists and lowered his embarrassed gaze to the floor. He hoped that Alfred would pick up the hint and change the topic or – even better – just _leave _the damned room. Arthur knew that he most certainly did not look 'hot' by far, even before his disorder began he had never been good looking, and to even _word _it that way . . . it was as if Alfred was _asking _to be misconstrued!

"Y-you know not to burst into a room without permission!"

"Why not? It's not as though you're France. I'm not going to go blind if I walk in here or need like brain-bleach or something. You only sleep or read or – hey, dude, you totally got a new television! That's so freaking awesome!"

"C-can you bloody well leave? I need to get dressed!"

Alfred rolled his eyes and picked up a dressing gown from a chair by the door. It was a simple black affair, the same one that he had borrowed a few weeks back, and with a rather disinterested and putout expression he threw it to Arthur who caught it with a rather easy catch. Well, he much rather be dressed for breakfast, but he supposed – at the very least – the gown hid his body from sight, which was a great bonus given the current situation. He tried to ignore his rapid heart rate and drew in a shaky breath.

"Bro, could you like just chill? I told you that you look good."

"I do not need the likes of _you _telling me that I look good! B-besides you do not walk into a colleague's room when he's almost naked and tell him that he looks 'hot'! It's that kind of thing that gets you into so much trouble!"

"Whatever. You're such an old scrooge sometimes! You're hot! Deal with it!"

"Y-you idiot!"

Arthur had barely slid the gown on when he reached down to grab the stray pillow from the floor, left there from his earlier tantrum. He was aware that he probably looked a fool, an older nation with gown open and bed-hair in a fury, but he couldn't help but feel furious with Alfred for his damned impudence! How did Alfred ever end up this way? It just seemed the same with all the younger nations that Arthur had a hand in raising . . . to this day he still didn't know what went wrong with Hong Kong or that bratty wannabe-nation Sealand.

He hadn't even been aware that he was hitting Alfred over and over with the pillow until he heard the chorus of complaints from Alfred's mouth, but Alfred merely stood there as he leaned to one side and lifted his left arm to protect him from the barrage of blows. There was one commendable thing about Alfred: he at least reigned in his strength and never hurt anyone else, even in self-defence.

"Would you quit that? I want to go eat!"

"I – I will not quit it! You jerk! You bastard! Get out! Get out you – you _prat_!"

"Hey, seriously! Stop that! Bro! Artie! _Stop_!"

Alfred grabbed the pillow hard and twisted it out of Arthur's grasp. He seemed to be a little annoyed, which was something of a joke to Arthur considering how he had no reason to be annoyed at all! Still, it was odd to see the young American so serious, or to see him simply toss the pillow back onto the bed, almost as if he was trying to be conscientious and keep a clean room. Still, Arthur didn't quite trust that expression. He didn't trust that Alfred looked so calm, that his smile was gone, or that he was looking with eyes half-closed with his usual look of 'quiet anger' reserved only for when he was pissed past the point where a tantrum would cure it.

"You going to come downstairs with me and tell me why the word 'hot' pisses you off so much?" Alfred snapped, as he leaned forward and put his hands in his pockets. "If you don't, dude, I'm more than happy to rock out to some awesome tunes on my own downstairs. I can just eat your share of breakfast too. You'd be like totally doing me a favour, but if you don't want to . . . your choice, dude!"

"I – I just . . . _fine_. Since you're suddenly Mr Maturity, lead the bleeding way!"

"Awesome! I knew you'd see it my way in the end! I'm the hero!"

"You're a bloody moron. Now get a move on!"

"Right on, Arthur!"

Arthur stumbled as Alfred grabbed his hand and began to drag him away. It would have been awfully embarrassing at any other time, being that Alfred had once been his charge, but now it was simply more of an annoyance. He struggled to tie his robe with just one hand, and Alfred – forever unaware of his own strength – was holding a little too tightly onto his wrist. It wasn't quite painful, but it certainly left him with no doubts that Alfred was serious about breakfast.

He couldn't bring himself to be annoyed with Alfred too much, after all the boy was simply worried, but he couldn't help but wonder when the bloody brat planned on going back to the States. Everyone else had left, with the exception of Yao who had stayed on in Chinatown with a few of the Asian nations and – for some reason – Ivan, and yet here Alfred was . . . refusing to leave! Arthur could understand it somewhat, because if it were Alfred who were sick then he would probably refuse to leave his side too, or at least make frequent visits to check up on him, but it felt a little stifling to have someone around him all the time. He was used to being alone. This much attention was more overwhelming than anything.

In a matter of minutes he found himself pulled down into the kitchen and almost forced into a nearby chair, whilst Alfred cheered loudly and ran about in a rather eager and excited manner. The music in the room was deafening, so much so that when Alfred shouted how Arthur wanted his eggs that the older man couldn't even hear him, which forced the younger man to begrudgingly turn down the volume and shout again to Arthur, who just shrugged in response. The kitchen was a mess. He dreaded to think how long it would take to clean.

It seemed as if Alfred had used every single pot and pan to make whatever disaster creation he had decided upon, but Arthur could only hope that – considering he taught the boy all he knew about cooking – that his cookery skills wouldn't be _too _bad. Still, it was a little worrying that Alfred needed batter and syrup and what looked like chocolate chips, he had to be aware those weren't on Arthur's 'allowed' list.

"Don't worry, dude! All this is for me!"

"What on earth is it?"

"Chocolate-chip pancakes with syrup! Strawberries and ice cream on the side!"

Arthur gave the table a sceptical look. He wasn't sure if it was a cruel act of Alfred to make such fattening foods and eat them before him, or rather kind of him to share in the eating schedule and eat every meal with Arthur. It was surprisingly helpful that he had someone to work through his issues with, and he appreciated the support greatly, but he just hated smelling such delicious food . . . seeing all the whipped cream and maple syrup . . . and knowing that he couldn't eat it. It was a form of torture. Of course, Yao had assured him that the fact his appetite was returning was a _good _thing, but if that appetite led to him eating like Alfred . . . led to him gaining too much weight . . . well, that would be far too much to deal with.

"Well what am _I _supposed to eat?"

"Depends! Tell me why complimenting you is such a bad thing, _and then _I'll tell you what I made you for breakfast! It's a totally awesome trade, so you have no choice _but _to open up and stuff! Just don't turn this into a chick flick, okay? I don't want you like crying all over me or something, just trust me and talk to me, all right? _Then _you get to eat the best breakfast ever!"

Alfred winked with a smile and raised a finger to the air, as if shooting a gun. He seemed to be genuinely pleased with himself, as if he had just concocted a foolproof plan, although he hadn't seemed to factor in one _particular _fool. Still, it was nice to see his face beaming with pride and joy, his blue eye sparkling as the other closed in that devilish and cheeky little wink, and suddenly Arthur was brought back to numerous world meetings and various parties.

It seemed that – no matter what the circumstances – Alfred would always be 'Alfred'. He was the one source of stability in Arthur's life, and – as much as he wanted back his privacy and solitude – he couldn't help but feel his spirits raised just by being in the presence of such a spirited young man. The young American may not have been the best caregiver, but he was as certainly a jolly good friend . . . although Arthur was loath to admit it. It was simply that Alfred was able to find the good in every situation, as if even the worst of circumstances couldn't bring him down, and even when he was sad – even when the world was against him – he always found a strength to face things head on. Arthur had to admire that.

"I'm not as strong as you, lad."

Arthur reached across the table for a slice of dry toast. He sliced it carefully into four triangle sections and gave it a hard stare, because as much as he knew that he shouldn't he couldn't help but count the fat intake in his head. Then there would begin the slow task of nibbling and taking small bites, knowing that the slower he ate the quicker he would feel full, and yet feeling that he ought to eat more and for once _ignore _the tricks to feeling fuller quicker.

"Dude, I don't get it," Alfred muttered, as he put down a loaded plate on his side of the table. "What has strength got to with opening up and stuff?"

"W-well I don't think it's proper to discuss personal matters around the breakfast table, that's all. I'm not like you, Alfred, I just can't open up the way that you can. You forget that private feelings are supposed to be private for a reason."

"Is this part of your 'stiff upper-lip' thing?"

"Well, I suppose you could put it down to a cultural quirk, yes."

Alfred seemed to consider this for a long moment whilst he appeared to dance around the kitchen, in a way that was _far _too reminiscent of Francis to put Arthur in anything other than a temporary foul mood. He could almost see the cogs turning in Alfred's head, moving as if they hadn't ever been given such a chance before, and the serious and pensive expression he wore was mildly curious indeed. Arthur could only hope that it boded well and that the younger man would leave the topic well alone.

It was then that Alfred picked up two bowls – almost lost in the haphazard selection of food, dirty dishes, and general mess – and brought them over to Arthur with his usual huge grin and bright smiling eyes. He plonked them on the table with very little finesse and then threw himself down into the chair opposite, where he proceeded to eat in a manner that Arthur was quite certain he had never taught the lad. In the meantime all Arthur could do was to stare blankly down at the 'food' before him. The burnt porridge looked positively awful, but – at least – free from sugars and syrups, and the small bowl of fruit beside it looked far too sickly sweet to constitute a 'breakfast snack'. Arthur couldn't stand continental breakfasts.

"Eat up, Bro! It's all healthy and not full of fat and stuff!"

"I'm very glad you tried to, er, cater to my needs, but I . . . I can't say fruit is really my sort of thing, and it must have been quite a chore to find all the cheeses and meats that you have. Not to mention how troublesome it seems to have been for you to make the pancakes and whatnot. Perhaps tomorrow I can go back to cooking for you? You are a guest after all, lad."

"No way! I'm not a guest; I'm like family or something! Besides, it tastes good, right? I brought low-fat cheese, but Yao says it's good for calcium, plus the salad stuff is like good for iron too. I think there's vitamins or something in the fruit . . . so it's like healthy _but _not all fatty and stuff! Help yourself to what's on the table!"

"Yes, but I think you're missing my point, Alfred. There's a lot of mess . . ."

"It's fine! Matthew will clean it up, he's totally cool with it!"

"Matthew is back in bloody Canada, you twit!"

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He looked almost adorable with cheeks puffed out with all the food he was trying to masticate, and there was even a large dollop of whipped cream on his nose and maple syrup all over his lips. Arthur couldn't help but give a loving and serene smile as he took a large bite of his toast, a bite that he hadn't even realised he was taking, and as he thought back to Alfred growing up he realised it was moments like these he missed most.

"Huh?" Alfred said, as he spat food across the table. "Since when?"

"Since the last few weeks! And don't speak with your mouth full! It's disgusting!"

"Sorry, man, I forgot you're easily put off your food and stuff."

"Yes, _quite_."

Alfred seemed genuinely puzzled by this news. In fact Arthur caught sight of him pulling out his phone to send a quick text message to his brother, and – if Arthur assumed correctly – he probably had been sending many messages all this time without even realising that they were in separate continents. He was sure he could already hear the future screams of a man looking at his phone bill ringing in his ears. The bloody brat never paid attention to the important things . . .

It was nice to have a quiet few seconds though, enough so that Arthur began to make work of the small bowl of porridge before him. He couldn't help but note how Alfred had picked the smallest bowl and only put in a few spoonfuls of the concoction, rather than making use of 'American' portions. It was a small touch, but it warmed his heart a little and made him grateful of what he had to eat. He managed to nearly finish his small portion when he heard Alfred screaming down the phone, before he let out a sound of indignation and glared angrily at the screen. It seemed someone hung up on him. Well, most nations tended to hang up on America when they felt that they could safely get away with doing so.

"Dude, he's really in Canadia! I swear I heard a moose moo or something! I can't believe he's gone, I mean I've been sharing a room with him this whole time! Wait, so . . . who've I been sharing my room with?"

"_No one, I hope_! How could you not notice that he's been bloody gone? I know he's hard to notice, but he's your brother!"

"Well, I guess it was kind of weird that my room wasn't tidy and that my alarm wasn't being set and that no one complained when I stayed up all night. Plus, my clothes haven't been ironed and there isn't a smell of syrup everywhere."

"Idiot."

"Hey! You're like totally changing the subject!"

Arthur winced as Alfred threw a grape across the table. He had no idea when Alfred had brought all these items, or even when he found time to convert what few dollars he had left into pounds, but frankly he found the wasting of food somewhat shameful. He was aware of the hypocrisy, but he couldn't help but feel that even if _he _weren't eating it that someone else _could _have been. He could only imagine the look of horror on the Macaroni Brothers faces if they saw Alfred right now and how he acted at the breakfast table. That reminded him . . . he had a European conference to attend in a few weeks time in Brussels.

"Why can't I call you good-looking?" Alfred asked.

"B-because for one thing it's not something one chap says to another chap! To most people saying to someone that they look 'hot' is usually a come-on, and – and besides that I most certainly do _not _look hot! It's insulting that you would think I would believe such a foolish and idiotic lie! Idiot!"

"Wow, I didn't think your self-esteem was _that _low, dude."

Arthur bristled and folded his arms. It was difficult for him to reply to such a comment as that, because – after all – if he were to admit that Alfred was right then it would be akin to admitting he was weak and still needed a great deal of help, but to deny it would be a blatant lie and basically give Alfred permission to continue with his idiotic comments. He wanted Alfred to stop with such 'compliments', but it was honestly very difficult to communicate that to someone like Alfred . . .

He hated compliments, or at least he hated _personal _compliments. He could stand kind words about his empire, he _lived _for the pat on the back he received after taking down Francis in a fight, and he would gladly admit to gloating about his victories at any viable opportunity, but those were things _greater _than himself. He couldn't deny a victory. He couldn't deny his strength or his intelligence or his foresight in battle, because when all was said and done those were things that could be objectively valued. They were impossible to deny, but something like appearance . . . well, how on earth was he supposed to measure _that_? It didn't matter what Alfred said, because he knew the truth. He had heard it said to him hundreds of times in the past. He most certainly was not – nor would ever be – 'hot'.

There could be nothing more insulting than for Alfred to blatantly lie to Arthur in such a rude manner. It was as if the other man were deliberately picking up on Arthur's deepest and darkest insecurities, and playing upon them, using them to _hurt _Arthur in a way that an outright insult would fail. Arthur knew that he was unattractive, to be called so was merely a reminder of the curse he was born with, but to be told that he was good-looking only made him yearn for what he couldn't have, only reminded him of the failure that he was . . . it was like reopening a wound.

"Still, you like trust me, don't you?"

Arthur jolted a little and looked across the table to Alfred. The young American looked oddly serious, enough so that he had even ceased playing with his food and had instead wiped his face with his sleeve, a trait that caused Arthur to wince and wonder where the damned boy had picked up such disgusting habits. Still, it was a little disconcerting to have someone ask such a question outright in such a manner; it made Arthur feel obliged to be honest . . .

"I suppose," Arthur said carefully. "Although, I may add, that it's very hard to trust someone who ends his business sentences with 'gates' and dresses up as Santa at Christmas, but it's true that I trust you more than most. You may be a blithering imbecile, but you're a well-meaning blithering imbecile."

"_Totally_ pretending I didn't hear that! Anyway, I think you look hot, so trust me on that, 'kay? It's not like I'd get anything out of lying to you, Artie. And hey, I know what I'm talking about here! You look good, so deal!"

"No wonder you need glasses, you git. Now, where did you put the post? I couldn't find it at all yesterday, I bloody searched all day too."

"Huh? What? Oh, I put the _mail _under the toast-rack."

"What -? Why would you -? Oh, _never mind_."

Under the silver toast-rack there sat a relatively large stack of envelopes. It seemed that there had been a fair amount of correspondence sent to him, but after flicking through the small pile – after dusting off the breadcrumbs – he found that there wasn't very much of interest. The bulk of it seemed to be nothing more than bills and plans for upcoming meetings, but there – at the very bottom – was a handwritten invitation from one of the friendlier nations:

Ciao!

_I thought that because everyone would be meeting soon that it would be nice to spend time together, so I arranged a big dinner party for everyone! Only _this _time I don't want Miss Hungary and Mister Britain to stand all alone outside, because sad and grumpy faces aren't allowed! You have to be happy to come in, so remember your smiling faces, okay? So let's forget all about boring old politics for just one night!_

_Japan will be there too, because it'd be weird to have a party without Japan, and Brother will be cooking his famous _calamari ripieno alla griglia_, which is really yummy! I invited Mister America too, but we won't have any burgers. I'm really sorry!_

_Hoping to see you all very soon! _

_Your friend, _

_Feliciano Vargas, North Italy_

_P.S Germany says the party is going to be on the 5__th__ of next month at my place!_

_Hugs and kisses! _

Arthur felt his eyebrow twitch a little as he stared in disbelief at the letter. It couldn't possibly have come at any worse moment, and yet he could hardly fault Feliciano for having sent him such an invitation, because – after all – the young man was hardly aware of Arthur's personal problems. It was made a little more difficult by the fact that Yao would be returning to China soon too, so that his therapy sessions would soon be over the internet and conducted with time-zone differences in mind. There would be no one to fall back on for support. Perhaps he could consider this some sort of test? Surely he was strong enough to endure one little meal?

"What's that your staring at, Arite?"

"A load of bollocks," Arthur snapped. He sighed as he put the letters to one side and tried to keep calm in the midst of what was beginning to be a panic attack. "We've been invited to a dinner party at Feliciano's."

"What? Really? _Awesome_!"

Alfred jumped out of his seat as he stared in complete excitement at the letter in Arthur's hands, almost as if he had never seen an invitation before. His hands were pressed flat against the table, his eyes almost glittered with pure and juvenile enthusiasm, and he wore a determined grin upon his face that almost always pre-empted the usual 'I'm the hero' that came with such an expression. It was rather adorable. Then again Arthur should have expected as much . . . food to Alfred was like technology to Estonia or Ivan to Belarus.

"I can't believe you've become my default plus-one," Arthur snapped grumpily. "There's an RSVP card on the back with both of our names. I find it awfully rude that they would make the assumption that I have no one else worth inviting, and besides – _Alfred, I'm _not_ attending, stop that_!"

Alfred had been too busy whooping and cheering to even notice that Arthur had been talking to him, and he was already out of his chair and jumping about on the spot. It would have been less annoying and childish to actually witness a tantrum, although judging from how excited he was a tantrum would certainly follow when he realised that they wouldn't be attending Feliciano's party. Arthur tried to remain calm, but when Alfred's expression dropped . . . when the smile turned into a look of absolute horror and heartbreak . . . Arthur knew for a fact that they would be attending. No one could resist that fragile and adorable look. No one.

"Dude, why not? It's like just down the block!"

"We don't have bleeding 'blocks'! It is also most certainly _not _just over the road! Italy is nowhere near England! We would have to take the Tunnel or fly over, and it's a two-hour flight! I can't just magically _poof _to wherever I want! This isn't one of your bloody science-fiction films!"

"Dude! Feliciano is forever running over to Francis' crib and stuff, and that Roderich guy is always hanging out randomly at Ludwig's place! Plus you European guys are forever just bumping into one another."

"Look, I am not getting into that. We're not going, _full stop_!"

"Are you just nervous because it's a _dinner _party?"

Arthur froze at the question. It felt rather like a cold sweat had broken upon him, a feeling that he had no control over and that he likewise couldn't endure, something uncomfortable and burdening. It was true, he _was _nervous. He simply hadn't truly allowed himself to think about why, because to think about why was to think about what he felt, it was to think about what he would have to go through if he went . . . it was too overwhelming to consider.

He didn't know how to respond to Alfred. How could he possibly express the fact that eating a meal publicly was his worst fear come true, without losing face? It was difficult enough to eat a meal, but it was something that had gradually grown easier after his talks with Yao and support from Alfred, so that now he could eat reasonably sized portions without feeling too much guilt. It was a very different thing, however, to be given huge plates of pasta and rich sauces, foods that he _knew _would be fattening and filling, and to feel all eyes upon him, even if they weren't, even if they couldn't care less . . . he would still _feel _it. He would feel the judgement.

"W-woah!" Alfred snapped, as he caught sight of Arthur's face. "You are, aren't you? Ah, I didn't think! I'm so sorry, man, I –"

"I-it's fine, if you want to go . . . well, I suppose I could stick to salad."

"You'd be willing to go with me? Really?"

Arthur bit his lip nervously and thought about what the dinner party would entail. There would no doubt be a table laden with pots and plates, everyone scrambling to get helpings of their favourite dishes before someone with an appetite like Alfred or Gilbert stole it all, with everyone asking him to pass things or if he had enough. If he didn't eat enough he would potentially offend Feliciano, but he couldn't eat too much without feeling physically sick and as if he had failed himself . . .

Then there would be Gilbert arguing with Roderich and Elizabeta, there would be Lovino and Antonio bickering one-sidedly in a corner, not to mention the Baltic States gossiping between themselves with inside jokes and nostalgic memories. Arthur didn't really have anyone to talk to. Everyone had their little rivalries and groups, even Romania and some of the lesser-known nations had their places within Europe, but then there was Arthur . . . always on the sidelines, always forgotten . . . to spend several hours surrounded by delicious – yet _forbidden _– foods would be hell, but to be surrounded by forbidden foods _and _people who treated him as an outcast would be a torture unlike any other.

Alfred, however, seemed to be completely oblivious to Arthur's internal dilemma. He looked so bright and positive, so eager and serene, that it actually brought a small smile to Arthur's lips despite the fact that he still felt relatively annoyed at his friend's rather childish antics. Still, this _would _admittedly be heaven for a man like Alfred, who would be free to gorge himself on his favourite foods cooked by one of the world's best chefs. He never felt more different than Alfred, yet at the same time he had never felt closer to him.

"Well," Arthur said with a small smirk, "if you're willing to eat whatever extras they force on my plate, then yes. I suppose I can go with you."

"God, Bro! I'm totally coming over there to hug you! You're like the most awesome dude ever! Free food _and _extras! If you need to talk or anything though, or go home early or something, that's cool too! I can get dessert somewhere else!"

"You idiot . . ."

Arthur smiled. It was simply nice to see Alfred so happy, so overjoyed, and to also know that there would be someone there he could depend upon. He had never before considered 'dependable' a word to describe Alfred with, but for the younger man to sacrifice dessert – the 'most holy of holy meals' to him – was a very kind and loving gesture on his part. Arthur didn't have much time to ponder about it, because almost at once Alfred had latched onto his neck and proceeded to hug him tightly. It reminded him of the days when Alfred was still a child. It gave him a small piece of hope that perhaps, somehow, everything may be okay.

"Well, if you're staying for a while," Arthur said cheerfully, as he patted Alfred's back, "you better earn your bloody keep! Seeing as you're so keen on cooking you can make us some lunch today. What do you have planned?"

"Whatever you want, man! Totally love you! _Parties rock_! Party! Party! Party!"

"You too, Alfred, you idiot. You too."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **This is the final chapter. Thank you very much to everyone who has read this far :) I do have a sequel planned, which will be a darker romance as opposed to a more light-hearted drama. First chapter should be up in a month or so. Thank you to '_Purestrongpoem'_, '_Gothickitty1313'_ and '_LadyArn'_ for your reviews.

Also, the reference to Hungary and Britain being left outside was a reference to an EU meeting a year or so back.

**Chapter Nine**

"Ah, Alfred, over here, lad!"

"I – I –"

It was nice to see Arthur looking so well. He seemed to be brimming with a controlled sort of energy, so much so that the smile on his face seemed sincere and genuine, with a slight reddish tinge to his cheeks that indicated he had been smiling for a while now. The only strange thing was how he seemed to be trying to hold in his happiness, rather like a man who had thought of a funny joke during a solemn event, and it seemed a little odd. Perhaps this was the British 'stiff upper-lip' mentality?

He seemed healthy too, and he wore a traditional brown suit that looked rather nice on him. He filled it out in a way that he hadn't done for quite some time, but without looking 'big' or 'chubby', which had been Arthur's greatest worry during the start of his recovery process. It was as if the confidence were radiating from him. He stood with shoulders back and head held high, his hands on his hips in a rather commanding and assured gesture, and it served almost as a reminder of what the great British Empire had once been. It was nice . . . after all, no one wanted Arthur to be miserable, but . . . there was just one thing, a small and trivial thing really . . .

"Stupid, Britain," Francis snapped. "That is Canada! _Canada_!_ Mon dieu!_"

"What? I knew that! Look, I don't have to explain myself to _you_, Frog-Breath!"

"_Non_, but it would be nice if you remembered Canada's name!"

Mathieu sighed and slipped past the screaming pair. It was never really a good idea to get between the two when they argued, especially because they each felt a certain claim upon Mathieu, expecting him to side with them even when he wasn't particularly interested or involved with their personal battles. Still, it was nice to see that Arthur had his vitality and spirit back, because for so long he had seemed too tired to even argue. Sure, he made snippy comments, but he hadn't actually fought with Francis in what felt like forever.

He slipped into the meeting room to escape the ensuing argument. It seemed that the whiteboard had the usual and standard pictures upon it, with the computer projector hooked up to what was probably Ludwig's latest presentation, and scattered about the room were various nations already preparing for the meeting to come. There were a few familiar faces about, a few familiar shouting matches and gossiping conversations, but they were all overshadowed by what sounded like a physical altercation between Francis and Arthur outside. There was a small part of Mathieu – a _very _small part – that almost missed the days when Arthur were still a little ill, simply because he had forgotten how frustrating these arguments could be. They never seemed to end.

It was only as Mathieu slid himself into his seat that he noticed the absence of Alfred and Ludwig. That seemed odd, especially considering how Arthur, Roderich, and Feliciano had already arrived, but – then again – perhaps they were somewhere outside in the corridor, waiting to mediate and referee the ensuing fight? Mathieu wasn't sure how Ludwig managed it, but somehow he was always there during these things. He was always the one to step in and get involved, and always the one to put an end to childish squabbles . . . it was like he had a sixth sense about these things.

"This is nice, _da_?"

"M-maple! I'm sorry, Russia, I – I didn't see you there."

Ivan sat down beside Mathieu and gave him a rather warm smile. Then again, with the larger and taller nation every smile seemed to be a warm smile . . . it's what always made the other nations feel anxious around him. The same smile he would wear when seeing a beautiful sunflower was the same one that he would wear when engaging in grand acts of violence. It made him impossible to read. Mathieu could only smile back and hope that Ivan wouldn't take offence to his nervousness.

"It is okay," Ivan said kindly. "It seems that many people do not wish to see me."

"T-that's not it at all, I just –"

"It is funny. You wish to be seen, but no one can see you. I wish to be seen, but no one wishes to see me. It would be very lonely, but it is nice that we can see each other. You should become one with Russia!"

"I – that is – I think –"

'_This is why you are late for the meeting? Get inside now! Hurry!'_

Mathieu turned to look at the door. In order there seemed to be Francis, Arthur and Alfred . . . each one looking slightly more triumphant than the last. Francis stormed inside in a rather elegant way, making even defeat look fashionable as he wore a scowl and a bloody lip, and muttered some words in French that caused Mathieu to blush and wish that he hadn't heard them. It seemed that he had lost yet again in the eternal battle between the two nations.

Arthur meanwhile wore a slightly devilish smile, one that pulled at the corner of his mouth and darkened his eyes, making him – in Mathieu's opinion – look a little bloodthirsty. He even seemed to emanate a dark aura about him. His hair was slightly mussed, plus his suit was a little torn in places, and yet somehow he still managed to look a little scary and more than a little menacing. It was enough to make Mathieu happy that he had been far too young to ever engage Arthur on the seven seas, especially when Arthur appeared to be glaring daggers at the blond Frenchman. How Alfred could walk behind them – whooping and cheering – was beyond Mathieu's understanding. How could he be so light-hearted?

"If we could continue this meeting," Ludwig snapped.

Ludwig was the last to enter. Francis had taken a seat by Seychelles, whilst Alfred and Arthur took seats near to Mathieu. It was somewhat strange, after the past year or so, for things to be relatively back to normal . . . he could remember how difficult it had been for Arthur to take so much as a bite of food, to eat in public, or to even smile without it turning into a scowl. Now he seemed back to his usual self, so that even though he could frown and pout he could still smile and laugh, and he seemed happier in himself. He seemed genuinely happy.

It was still a difficult process, and Mathieu had to wonder if Arthur would ever be fully recovered, but at least he was making _progress_. Even if he always had that niggling fear in the back of his head, at least with Yao's help and Alfred's support he would manage to cope with those feelings and be the person who he used to be. It was simply nice to be able to eat with Arthur, to see him contented with himself, and to see him sitting beside Alfred in a meeting, next to the still steaming cheeseburger and tall strawberry milkshake, showed great steps in Arthur's recovery. Mathieu could smell the strong scent from where he sat, he could even hear Francis making comments about it from across the room, but Arthur sat composed. He sat strong.

Ludwig himself seemed to be keeping rather calm, all things considered. The recent world meetings had – to put it lightly – extended far longer than anyone had anticipated, so by the third day the meetings had descended into more of a social gathering and had lost any semblance of professionalism. Feliciano, Lovino, and Antonio seemed to be gossiping loudly and eating various Mediterranean dishes, and Alfred seemed to have a one-man picnic with fast-food on his table, it was all starting to make Mathieu feel a little hungry. How did Ivan bear it?

"First things first, we shall begin with –"

'_Dude, do you think we can like get a pizza around here later?'_

'_No, I don't think so. I've never seen a pizzeria in Italy. You'll have to wait.'_

'_What, really? That's so bogus! I want a pizza!'_

" – is if we keep our speeches to ten minutes each and allow only five minutes for questions. This needs to be kept as brief as possible. I propose that I shall go first, being that this _does _concern the economy. Greece, Italy and Spain can go last."

Mathieu heard a small laugh from Ivan beside him. He saw the larger man cover his mouth with his hand to hide the source of the sound, something that Mathieu found just a little bit unnerving. He wasn't sure if Ivan were sharing in the joke or if he considered the other nations to _be _the joke. Still, the sound of Francis laughing loudly and pointing across the room at Arthur was enough to distract him from his neighbour for a small moment. It was nice things were back to normal, Mathieu thought to himself, because this way Arthur was healthy and happy, even if that meant that the bickering lead to much longer meetings.

"Well, if we're doing this in order of who is most important in terms of economic success," Francis said, in a rather gloating manner, "then I think our _Angleterre _should go last, _non_? Someone just lost his triple-A rating."

"Must you say that in such a singsong manner?"

"_Oui_! The former pirate isn't so perfect, it seems!"

"Oh, shut it! I still have more economic clout than some bell-end who only survives by hanging onto that kraut's coat tails! If all you do is live to blooming mock me, you can think again! Sod off, you!"

"_Enough_! You will both be quiet! Now then –"

Mathieu had to smile to himself. It couldn't be denied, it _was_ really annoying when the nations got together in such a way, almost as if they brought out the worst in each and lived to fulfil outdated stereotypes. The worst of them all seemed to be Francis and Arthur, who – without rhyme or reason – seemed to always inspire some sort of fight between Heracles and Sadiq, but in all honesty as soon as two nations began to argue it would inevitably lead to the rest doing so anyway . . .

Still, Mathieu was impressed with how Arthur was standing up for himself and refusing to internalise any of Francis' petty insults, and he was also impressed by how Arthur had grown so much that Francis felt _safe _throwing such jibes about, because he knew – without a doubt – that Arthur was strong enough to take it. He may not have been quite ready to eat 'Alfred-sized' desserts, but he was able to give as good as he got, able to sit in a room filled with food as nations ate and passed around portions, able to just _be himself. _Mathieu realised that he wouldn't trade these moments for anything in the world. It was nice to just be a part of something bigger than himself. It was like being a part of a family.

'_Look, I was being bleeding sarcastic!'_

'_So we can get a pizza? Awesome! Do you think they have stuffed-crust?'_

'_They don't do stuffed-crust in Italy! Besides, do you know how many calories those things even have? You'll be packing on the pounds.'_

'_Fine! We'll get something else. Hey, lasagne's Italian right?'_

'_Is it? Is it, really? Nothing gets past you.'_

'_Huh? Is that sarcasm again?'_

"It sounds like they are having great fun," Ivan whispered to Mathieu.

Mathieu smiled and shook his head. It was true, they did look like they were having fun, despite the sarcasm and bickering. They sat so close to one another, each one in the other's personal space, and yet neither one seemed to mind all that much. Arthur had his arms crossed and legs folded, but he didn't seem as if he were distancing himself, merely putting on a gentlemanly show, and the smile on his face showed his good-humour. Alfred meanwhile sat with the chair-back between his legs, leaning his arms on the back, with his right hand gesticulating wildly.

They seemed oblivious to Ludwig's presentation, even though the German man certainly wasn't oblivious to their 'whispered' voices, which seemed to be just a _tad _louder than Ludwig's. In fact, every time Ludwig raised his voice it seemed that so did Alfred, so that the pair of nations were fast becoming the centre of attention. The way they bickered and argued seemed to be intense, like a brewing storm that was growing and growing to the point of destruction, but Mathieu knew the pair pretty well by now. It didn't matter how far things went between them, they would never truly blow up to the point that Arthur and Francis might. In a way strange way they seemed to be enjoying the argument, almost as if it were some sort of bonding exercise.

It was also somewhat sweet how Ivan seemed to enjoy the arguing. He watched with eyes soft and full of serenity, almost like he had been watching two children playing in a playground, rather than two adults merely _acting _like children. Mathieu couldn't help but wonder what it had been like for Ivan growing up. Sure, he had two sisters, but he also spent so much time alone . . . had he ever play-fought, or teased, or played a prank on his siblings? Had he ever had that pat on the back, or the hug goodnight, or the gentle bonding?

"I imagine," Ivan began innocently, as if he had read Mathieu's mind and sought to answer him, "that those smiling faces are unaware of what great pain awaits them, and that soon they shall be sad again. It makes me wonder which face shall be the more beautiful, the pained face or the happy face. I like it when they make a pained face. It is very amusing, _da_?"

Mathieu shuddered. _Okay, maybe that wasn't so sweet after all_.

"M-maybe a pained face is the same as a happy face?"

"_Da_! Great minds think alike!"

"Maple hockey!"

He had been joking, but it seemed that Ivan hadn't quite understood that. Then again, it was very difficult to judge _what _Ivan understood and didn't understand, or even merely what he _chose _to believe and accept. Still, there was just something a little disconcerting about the way he tilted his head and closed his eyes, and the way he smiled a bright and unassuming smile. He seemed so childlike, but Mathieu hadn't met a child yet who enjoyed pain.

Arthur, meanwhile, was too busy arguing with Alfred to notice anything else. The two of them were attracting the attention of most of the other nations, which included some less-than-subtle comments from Hungary and South Korea. It was getting considerably more and more difficult to pay attention to Ludwig, especially so when Arthur seemed adamant that Alfred _couldn't _be hungry when he was still eating a fast-food meal, and yet Alfred seemed to be ignoring what he said for cheers and shouts. Mathieu could agree that it was _great _that after so much therapy and work that Arthur could finally be around food and discuss their meal-plans, but not so much that Alfred needed to disrupt a meeting to cheer Arthur on . . .

'_Hey, I think it's time for a lunch-break, Bro!'_

'_Y-you're still eating a burger! You can't possibly be hungry!'_

"Quiet! No chitchatting in private and no secret side-deals! You know the drill!"

"Yo, dude!" Alfred shouted, as he raised his hand in the air. "Can we, like, get a lunch-break or something? I know the meeting has just started, but this is totally a nuisance! Isn't it like time for Italy's siesta or something?"

Ludwig gave Alfred a very dark stare. It seemed that for a very long moment he might have considered shouting or chastising Alfred, especially from the way his cheeks seemed to darken and his nostrils flared. Mathieu knew that look well, especially when it was preceded by hands slapping hard upon the desk and steel blue eyes glaring across the room at the source of his anger, and he knew that Ludwig was very close to breaking point. Luckily, something distracted him . . .

In the far corner Feliciano seemed to perk up at the word 'siesta'. His smile seemed to grow immensely and he even gave a visible jump in his seat, the audible _'ve'_ sound echoed about the room too, and – as Feliciano found a reason to become excited – it seemed that Ludwig had lost any real reason to deny them a break. He rubbed his face with his hand as Feliciano came across the room and began to say his name over and over, in a way that was oddly endearing. It reminded Mathieu a little of the times when Alfred would say something particularly stupid in front of Arthur, it was the same look of love mixed with exasperation.

It seemed that a few of the other nations were already throwing in the towel. Antonio laughed as he packed up his belongings, with Roderich already discussing his plans for later that evening, and soon half of those at the meeting were already in the midst of leaving . . . Mathieu heaved a loud sigh. It was like working with children. He had seen teenagers in classrooms looking at the clock with more patience than the men and women he worked with, and frankly he was a little disappointed. If Alfred and Feliciano got their way then it would only delay the meeting longer.

"Fine," Ludwig snapped. "We can take a break now, but there shall be no more breaks for the rest of the day! We must finish our meeting this week. If we skip the Q and A then we should make for – _are you leaving already_?"

Alfred paused mid-step. It reminded Mathieu a little of the belief that if one stood still then they wouldn't be seen by wild bears, because Alfred was looking straight at the German with the same look of a deer caught in the headlights. He had one foot still hanging in the air, he was mid-sip of his milkshake, and his other hand was poised ready to grab his bag and his burger. Arthur stood up behind him and rolled his eyes. It was clear that the Briton wouldn't excuse the American's behaviour.

"Er, kind of, man," Alfred said. "I got way bored listening to you, dude."

"Of course," Arthur snapped. "The only thing you _don't _get bored listening to is the sound of your own voice . . . then it's just the _rest _of us who get bored."

"You know it! Wait . . . _hey_!"

Arthur smirked his usual devilish smile. It always took Alfred a long while to get an insult, especially when irony and sarcasm were involved, but that didn't stop the look of childish frustration from crossing his face as Arthur smirked in victory. It was always a strange feeling to see his own face pouting like that, and all the years he had spent with his brother had never really helped him get used to it, but he couldn't help but think that this would be yet another thing to etch into the minds of the other nations that Alfred – and by extension Mathieu – was nothing more than a pouting child.

Alfred turned ready to shout at Arthur, but – true to form – it seemed that the Englishman hadn't finished tormenting his companion yet. After he brushed down his suit and collected his briefcase, he reached out for Alfred's burger and raised it to his mouth. The moment that followed was rather tense. Mathieu and Alfred both watched him, realising the internal conflict within the man's heart, as he took a long bite. He didn't seem to enjoy it, but he did it. _He took a bite._

"W-what are you doing? That's my burger!"

"Is it really? I do believe that it's my burger now. Jolly good burger it is, too."

"That's not fair! You're such a douche, dude! Give it back!"

Mathieu smiled as Arthur purposely licked the rest of the burger, before he handed it to Alfred with a devilish grin. The American snatched it back with a dark glare, but – strangely – he didn't actually seem all that annoyed, rather he looked as if he were trying his best not to smile. It seemed that Alfred, for once, understood the importance of holding his tongue. This was a huge step forward for Arthur, one that showed great promise, but to draw attention to that fact would only make Arthur self-conscious. It was best to ignore it, no matter how much he wanted to cheer and shout.

"Let's go get you that pizza, Alfred."

"Sure, pizza's on you!"

"Seems fair, lad. I'll just have to take the biggest slice though . . ."

"Y-you're so evil! That's not fair, Artie! You're just doing this to be mean!"

"Oh, come now! Would I ever do a thing like that?"

"Yes! Yes, you would!"

Arthur shook his head and lifted up his hands into the air. If it weren't for the smugly satisfied smirk on his face he may have seemed dismissive of Alfred, but he seemed to be quite jovial actually. The only indication that he was slightly uncomfortable came from a little quirk of his mouth, he seemed to lick his teeth and purse his lips, almost as if trying to work out what the taste was in his mouth or as if trying to get rid of the taste. He was uncomfortable having taken a bite, but he still seemed happy.

It was nice to see Arthur confident with himself, because even though there was clearly that doubt in the back of his mind, he still seemed content. He was happy to tease Alfred, able to accept the bickering back, and as they walked away they seemed to be quite happy in the midst of their conversation. It would have been quite endearing, if it weren't for the fact that Alfred continued to eat his burger as if another person hadn't used it as they had. They left quickly along with some of the other nations, leaving Mathieu – as usual – one of the very last ones left in the meeting hall. The quiet was nice, but he rather missed the sound of Arthur and Alfred . . .

Mathieu let out a long breath and smiled to himself. He could feel Ivan beside him picking up his belongings, humming a song that sounded somehow both nostalgic and eerie all at once, and when he looked to the Russian man he saw him look brighter than he had ever seen him appear. Ivan eventually stood beside Mathieu and looked down, unmoving, for a rather long time . . . the younger man would have been frightened, but it seemed that Ivan only wanted to reach down to lend him a hand. Mathieu took it and stood with a grateful smile of his own.

"It's nice to see them smile, _da_?" Ivan asked.

"It is. It really is."


End file.
